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THE  LIBRARY 

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NATHALIE 


A.  TALE. 

BY 

JULIA   KAVANAGH, 

AUTHOR    OF    "woman    IX    FKANCE,"    "MADELEINE,"     KTC. 


A  creature  not  too  pure  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,  I  lame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

Wiml*ufunh 


NEW  YORK: 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

649    k    551    BROADWAY. 
1872. 


PREFACE. 


The  singular  interpretations  to  wbicli  works  of  fiction  are 
sometimes  subject,  render  a  Preface  a  matter  of  necessity. 

In  writing  the  following  tale,  I  think  it,  therefore,  neces- 
eary  to  state  that  I  had  no  other  definite  object  in  view  than 
to  draw  two  very  opposite  characters,  and  show  as  truthfully 
as  I  could  how  those  characters  attracted,  repelled,  and  influ- 
enced each  other.  I  by  no  means  intend  to  imply  that  these 
pages  contain  no  other  moral;  I  hope  they  do  :  but  I  cannot 
slaim  the  merit  of  having  made  any  peculiar  moral  ray  aim. 
A  mo^al,  unless  when  based  on  a  very  broad  truth,  seldom 
fails  to  prove  fatal  to  works  of  art. 

Such  being  the  case,  I  make  no  apology  for  having  chosen 
two  very  imperfect  characters  for  my  heroine  and  hero.  I 
am  too  well  aware  of  their  deficiencies  to  imagine  that  they 
run  any  chance  of  being  considered  a.s  models,  or  even  of 
being  mistaken  as  embodiments  of  the  author's  conceptions  of 
!noral  beauty. 

J.  K 


NATHALIE. 


-«♦♦- 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Bring  iu  the  llglit,  and  tell  Mademoiselle  Nathalie  that 
it  is  my  desire  to  speak  to  her  instantly." 

Mademoiselle  Dantin  uttered  her  commands  in  a  sharp, 
imperative  tone.  A  timid-looking  servant,  in  conical  Norman 
cap,  and  short  petticoats  of  startling  fulness,  vanished  as  if  to 
hear  were  to  obey,  and  the  old  schoolmistress  stiffly  sank  back 
in  her  chair,  with  arms  folded  on  her  breast  and  a  frown  upon 
her  brow. 

It  was  a  chill  Norman  evening — almost  cool  enough  for 
England,  and,  in  the  deepening  twilight,  the  room  looked  well- 
nigh  dark.  Through  the  narrow  panes  of  a  low  glass  door  pen- 
etrated a  faint  gleam  of  lingering  light,  and  the  shadowy  out- 
lines of  a  few  tall  trees  were  dimly  visible  in  the  garden  be- 
yond. Thus  seen,  without  light  or  fire,  in  the  gathering  gloom 
of  evening,  with  pale  maps  and  shadowy  globes,  long  sombre 
curtains,  and  straight-backed  chairs,  the  apartment  looked 
most  comfortless ;  but  the  withered  features  and  rigid  figure 
of  Mademoiselle  Dantin  made  her  look  by  far  the  most  dreary 
object  it  contained. 

She  was  thin,  wrinkled,  and  hard-favored  ;  she  wore  no 
amiable  look,  nor  was  she  very  amiable  in  reality ;  being  dog- 
matic and  imperious,  she  rather  liked  teaching ;  it  was  power 
— authority,  and  turned  out,  moreover,  to  be  as  good  a  way  as 
any  of  fastening  her  own  peculiar  opinions — more  strongly 
marked  than  varied — on  others.  But  then,  as  misfortune  would 
bavo  it,  she  had  a  decided  antipathy  to  children  and  young 


8  NATHALIE. 

girls,  so  that  between  her  delight  in  the  tuition  and  her  gene 
ral  aversion  for  the  objects  taught — an  aversion  which,  as  usu- 
al, was  most  heartily  returned — Mademoiselle  Dantin  and  her 
pupils  had  rather  an  uncomfortable  life  of  it,  and  might  not 
have  got  on  at  all,  had  there  happened  to  be  another  school  and 
schoolmistress  in  the  town  of  Sainville. 

Sainville — we  cannot  advise  the  reader  to  look  for  it  on  tho 
map — is  a  quiet  little  place  buried  in  the  very  bosom  of  Nor- 
mandy. This  province  is  perhaps  the  prettiest,  and  certainly 
is  the  greenest  nook  in  all  the  pleasant  land  of  France.  It  has 
many  low  hills,  many  shallow  little  valleys,  with  bright  glanc- 
ing streams  and  a  clear  blue  sky  ;  above  all,  it  has  picturesque 
old  towns  of  quaint  and  venerable  aspect,  that  seize  on  the 
imagination  with  a  peculiar  and  mysterious  charm.  Dark, 
lonely,  and  rather  misanthropic-looking,  these  quiet  places 
contrast  strikingly  with  the  cheerful  verdure  and  soft  pastoral 
beauty  of  the  surrounding  scenery  ;  they  look  like  morose  her- 
mits, who  have  at  least  chosen  pleasant  spots  wherein  to  do 
penance.  But  though  their  quaintness  strikes  the  eye,  and 
their  monastic  gloom  awakes  the  fancy,  they  are  cold  and  cheer- 
less— they  cannot  win  the  heart ;  we  feel  that  there  life  glides 
away  in  too  dull  and  monotonous  a  flow ;  we  look,  wonder 
linger  for  a  while  in  narrow,  winding  streets,  with  crazy  wood- 
en houses  rising  high  on  either  side,  and  then  pass  on,  feeling 
we  have  left  a  human  prison  behind  us. 

Sainville  was  one  of  those  little  moral  islands;  it  had  no 
trade,  no  commerce,  no  life,  and  was,  moreover,  shut  out  from 
the  great  and  busy  world  by  a  barrier  of  aristocratic  chateaux 
rising  on  the  slope  of  the  surrounding  declivities,  or  enjoying 
the  shade  and  silence  of  the  neighboring  valleys.  In  these  lux- 
urious abodes,  life  was  as  gay  and  pleasant  as  heart  could 
wish,  and  some  of  the  best  of  French  society  could  make  it. 
Balls,  pla3's,  concerts,  fishing  excursions,  and  hunting  parties, 
seemed  to  be  ever  renewing  for  the  amusement  of  the  privi- 
leged owners  and  guests  of  the  chateaux.  Many  a  time  did  the 
inhabitants  of  Sainville,  who  all  belonged  to  the  smaller  bour- 
geoisie, and  who  had  not  wealth,  importance,  or  talent  to  rise 
above  their  station,  comment,  with  the  puritanic  severity  of 
the  excluded,  on  the  sin  and  folly  transacted  in  those  abodes 
whence  ever  proceeded  the  sounds  of  merriment  and  pleasure; 
and  many  a  time  did  they  grumble  more  morosely  still,  when 
wakened  in  the  early  morning  by  some  gay  cavalcade  clattering 
away  along  the  silent  streets. 


NATHALIE.  V 

Tliid  exclusion,  in  which  she  shared  like  her  fellow  citiztus. 
had  not  improved  the  mind  or  temper  of  Mademoiselle  Dantin 
She  had  accustomed  herself  to  think  of  nothing  save  her  school, 
its  propriety,  its  ceremonious  routine,  above  all  its  immaculate 
purity  ;  and  on  this  subject  she  had  grown  to  be  somewhat  se- 
vere and  irritable.  She  was  so  in  a  peculiar  degree  on  the  day 
when  this  story  opens.  This  was,  however,  a  day  which  gene- 
rally found  and  left  her  in  a  singular  state  of  good  humor,  be- 
ing neither  more  nor  less  than  that  appointed  for  the  annual 
distribution  of  prizes  among  her  pupils.  On  the  morning  of 
this  eventful  ceremony  the  room  had  been  hung  with  white 
draperies,  ornamented  with  green  wreaths.  Mademoiselle  Dan- 
tin  opened  the  proceedings  by  seating  herself  on  a  sort  of 
throne  erected  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  from  which  deviat- 
ed position  she  looked  down  triumphantly  on  the  curled  heads 
and  white  robes  of  the  pupils,  who  demurely  sat  in  rows  in  the 
centre  of  the  apartment,  whilst  their  friends  and  relatives  form- 
ed a  semicircle  around  them.  After  making  a  little  speech, 
Mademoiselle  Dantin.  holding  an  eye-glass  in  her  right  hand, 
and  a  paper  in  her  left,  senteutiously  read  aloud  the  names  of 
the  pupils  on  whom  she  had  resolved  to  confer  the  distinction 
of  a  prize.  Each  of  the  girls  thus  designated  then  left  her 
place  and  walked  up  to  a  tight,  lively-looking  little  gentleman, 
in  a  dark  wig,  the  professor  of  dancing,  who  sat  alone  between 
two  tables,  one  covered  with  books,  the  other  with  wreaths, 
took  from  his  hands  the  volume  adjudged  to  her,  and  stooped 
to  receive  the  laurel  wreath  which,  with  prompt  and  courteous 
grace,  he  rose  to  place  on  her  head,  whilst  delighted  papas  and 
mammas  shed  tears,  and  Mademoiselle  Dantin  looked  on  and 
felt  in  her  glory.  When  there  were  no  more  prizes  or  wreatlis 
to  give,  Mademoiselle  Dantin  rose,  and  the  company  dispersed, 
the  children  all  going  home  for  their  holidays.  As  soon  as 
every  one  had  departed,  the  schoolmistress  gave  prompt  orders 
for  the  taking  down  of  hangings  and  wreaths :  in  a  few  mi- 
nutes all  was  over  ;  the  room  was  empty,  the  walls  were  bare, 
and  the  school,  instead  of  being  filled  with  the  murmuring  hum 
of  pupils  conning  over  their  les.sons,  fell  into  a  deep  and  unna- 
tural stillness,  destined  to  last  six  weeks.  But  though  the 
ceremony  had  passed  off  in  the  best  possible  manner,  the  tri- 
umph of  this  day  was  soon  clouded  by  a  discover}-  which  filled 
the  mind  of  the  schoolmistress  with  indignant  wrath.  What 
that  discovery  was  will  be  seen  farther  on. 

A  few  minutes  had  elapsed  since  she  had,  in  a  tone  of  omi 

1* 


IC  NATIIALrE. 

nous  severity,  given,  with  regard  to  chc  appearance  of  "  Made 
moiselle  Nathalie,"  the  order  recorded  in  the  first  lines  of  this 
chapter,  when  the  door  of  the  room  where  she  sat  opened,  and 
Marianne,  the  servant,  entered,  bearing  a  lighted  tallow  candle 
in  an  old  plated  candlestick,  which  she  placed  on  the  table  be- 
fore her  mistress. 

"  Well  ?"  observed  Mademoiselle  Dantin.  with  inquiring 
sharpness. 

"  Mademoiselle  Nathalie  is  not  in  her  rooi..,"  was  the  low 
reply. 

'•  Not  in  her  room  !  and  what  is  she  allowed  a  room  of  her 
own  for  unless  to  be  in  it?"  exclaimed  the  schoolmistress, with 
L-tibdued  irritation. 

"  Perhaps  she's  gone  to  breathe  a  little  fresh  air  in  the  gar 
dx^n,"  timidly  suggested  Marianne. 

"  Not  at  this  hour,  Marianne,"  majestically  replied  Made- 
moiselle Dantin  ;  "  no,  I  will  not  admit  that  any  member  of 
my  establishment,  however  faulty  in  other  respects,"  she  feel- 
ingly added,  '•  could,  against  my  well-known  rule,  be  out  in  the 
garden  at  this  hour." 

"  Shall  I  go  and  see.  madame?" 

"  No,  Marianne,  I  cannot  allow  that ;  to  allow  it  would  be 
to  admit  such  a  thing  as  possible,  and  this  I  never  will ;  look 
for  her  in  the  class." 

Marianne  silently  left  the  room,  but  the  door  did  not  close 
behind  her.  For  the  head  and  wig  of  the  '•  Professor"  who 
had  played  so  important  a  part  in  the  morning's  ceremony, 
suddenly  made  their  appearance  in  the  dai-k  aperture,  smiled 
and  nodded  at  Mademoiselle  Dantin  with  mingled  familiarity 
and  respect,  and  lisped  in  a  tone  of  soft  entreaty :  "  May  I 
come  in  ?" 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  le  Chevalier,  you  may  come  in,"  replied 
the  schoolmistress,  half  rising  from  her  seat ;  her  tone  was 
gracious  and  mollified,  and  a  faint  smile  passed  over  her  faded 
face.  Thus  encouraged,  the  Chevalier,  a  middle-aged  little 
man  with  a  thin,  sallow  visage,  quick  eyes,  and  an  aquiline 
nose,  entered  the  room  with  erect  bearing  and  elastic  tread. 
He  was  proceeding  to  shut  the  door  with  a  prompt  decision 
natural  to  him,  Avhen  Mademoiselle  Dantin  shook  her  head_ 
and  admonishingly  observed : 

•'  The  door,  5lonsieur  le  Chevalier." 

"  Ah  !  yes,  the  door,"  he  sighed,  and  left  it  open. 

"  Rules  must  be  obeyed,"  continued  the  schoolmistress. 


KATHAT.IE.    .  11 

"Yes,  rules  must  be  obeyed,"  answered  the  CIie\'a]icr,  re 
pressing  a  shiver  as  the  keen  drauglit  came  full  upon  him. 

It  was  a  rule  in  Mademoiselle  Dantin's  establishment  for 
no  lady  to  converse  with  a  gentleman,  not  her  father  or  bro- 
ther, in  a  closed  room.  The  mistress  was  the  first  to  set  the 
example,  and  obey  the  rule  in  all  its  severity.  To  say  the 
truth,  she  generally  sat  facing  the  door ;  and  the  male  visitor, 
whoever  he  might  be,  had  his  back  turned  to  it,  so  that  all  the 
hardship  of  this  rule  could  not  be  said  to  fall  upon  her;  but 
what  gentleman  would  complain,  when  feminine  modesty  was 
at  stake  ?  assuredly  not  so  devoted  a  squire  of  dames  as  the 
Chevalier  Theodore  de  Muranville-Louville. 

No  mummery  ever  yet  existed  without  some  special  adviser 
or  other  in  male  shape,  and  what  a  father  confessor  might  have 
been  to  an  abbess  and  her  gentle  sisterhood,  the  Chevalier  was 
to  Mademoiselle  Dantin  and  her  fair  pupils.  He  was  the  only 
individual  of  his  sex  attached  to  the  establishment,  for  the 
salic  law  still  holds  good  with  regard  to  the  tuition  of  dancing. 
To  this  law  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  who,  if  she  could,  would 
have  efiaccd  the  masculine  gender  from  dictionary  and  gram- 
mar, very  indignantly  submitted.  But  the  gentle  blood  of  the 
Chevalier,  who,  though  of  an  impoverished  family,  had  an  au- 
thentic claim  to  the  noble  names  he  bore,  and  his  title  of 
Knight  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  bestowed  upon  him  for  saving 
a  drowning  man,  but  which  many  considered  a  government  re- 
ward for  his  invention  of  a  new  pas ^  called  the  Sainville />a.s,  a 
rumor  he  rather  favored — above  all,  his  chivalrous  devotednesa 
to  the  fair  sex,  had  conquered  the  antipathy  and  subdued  the 
obdurate  heart  of  the  schoolmistress.  Woman  was  indeed 
sacred  as  woman  to  the  gallant  little  Chevalier ;  he  cherished 
a  platonic  and  universal  passion  for  the  whole  sex,  and  rever- 
enced a  petticoat  in  its  earliest  and  latest  stages  ;  ho  believed 
neither  in  little  girls  nor  in  aged  dames  ;  he  took  oiF  his  hat  to 
young  ladies  of  six,  and  flirted  with  ladies  of  sixty,  and  did 
Doth  with  equal  grace.  But  though  thus  gentle  to  tho.«c  whon^ 
he  called  "  earthly  angels,"  the  Chevalier  was  to  his  own  sex 
stern  and  somewhat  haughty. 

Having  taken  the  scat  which  Mademoiselle  Dantin  conde- 
eceudingly  designated,  the  Chevalier  could  not  but  notice  the 
gloom  which  ovcrshndowod  the  features  of  the  fair  schoolmis- 
tress. In  a  neat  little  speech,  he  immediately  expressed  his 
sympathy  with  the  regret  she  naturally  felt  at  the  temporary 
separation  between  herself  and  her  beloved  pupils  Mademoi 
■elle  Dantin  tossed  her  head. 


12  XATllALIE. 

"  As  if  I  cared  for  the  little  flirts  !"  she  said,  almost  iudig- 
nantly. 

The  Chevalier  looked  distressed.  Flirts  !  there  were  nc 
flirts  in  his  creed. 

'•'  A  set  of  forward  coquettes  !"  continued  she. 

"  Oh  !  Madame  !"  he  exclaimed,  raising  his  hands  implor. 

"  And  of  deceitful  minxes,  as  all  girls  are,"  she  persisted 

The  Chevalier  was  shocked.  He  gently  endeavored  to  re- 
monstrate, and  ventured  to  remind  her,  "  That  though  women 
were  tender  flowers  at  every  age,  they  were  frail,  very  frail 
rosebuds  in  their  youth." 

"  Well,  then,  one  of  the  rosebuds  is  going  to  get  a  nipping," 
retorted  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  looking  as  dark  and  chill  as  a 
wintry  breeze. 

She  rang  the  bell  as  she  spoke,  and  Marianne  promptly 
made  her  appearance. 

'•  Ts  Mademoiselle  Nathalie  coming  or  not  ?"  asked  the 
schoolmistress. 

"  Yes,  madame  ;  she  said  she  would  come  directly." 

•'  Pray  where  did  you  find  her?" 

The  girl  hesitated. 

'•  In  the  garden,  reading,"  she  replied  at  length. 

Mademoiselle  Dantin  rose. 

"  Chevalier,"  she  said,  with  great  state,  "  be  good  enough 
to  leave  me.  I  have  a  duty  to  perform  ; — an  act  of  justice  and 
authority  to  exercise.     I  must  be  alone." 

The  Chevalier  rose,  looked  dismayed,  but  retired  on  tiptoe, 
without  so  much  as  remonstrating.  He  knew  that  Mademoi- 
selle Dantin's  justice  was  always  administered  privately,  and 
with  a  strictness  of  secrecy  that,  like  the  Vehmgericht,  only 
rendered  it  more  awful  to  the  apprehension  of  the  uninitiated. 

"  What  has  our  pretty  southern  flower  done  ?"  he  poeti- 
cally inquired,  as  Marianne  closed  the  door  and  followed  him 
out ;  but  the  girl  only  shook  her  head  in  reply,  and  seemed 
struck  with  consternation. 

As  soon  as  she  was  alone,  Mademoiselle  Dantin  walked  up 
to  the  glass  door  that  led  into  the  garden,  and  stood  there  for 
a  few  seconds,  peering  through  the  narrow  panes  with  sharp 
attention.  There  was  a  peculiar  smile  on  her  face  as  she 
turned  away  and  resumed  her  seat.  Scarcely  had  she  done 
BO  when  the  glass  door  opened.  The  schoolmistress  heard  it 
very  well,  but  did  not  choose  to  look  up  ;  a  light  step  glided 


NATHAMJE.  1,1 

m,  Btili  slio  remained  motionless  and  grim,  looking  straight 
before  her.  It  is  the  culprit  that  must  seek  the  glance  of  tho 
judge,  and  not  the  judge  that  must  look  at  the  culprit.  Made- 
moiselle Dantin  vras  a  true  Normande,  litigious  in  spirit,  and 
versed  in  legal  knowledge ;  besides  the  rules  which  she  merci- 
Icssly  imposed  on  others,  she  had  certain  rules  for  her  own 
use.  which  she  rigidly  obeyed :  one  of  these  rules  was  to  give 
a  judicial  form  to  almost  every  thing  she  did. 

"  Did  you  wish  to  speak  wath  me,  madame  ?"  asked  a  clear, 
cheerful  voice  at  her  elbow. 

Tlie  schoolmistress  made  no  reply,  but  slowly  raised  her 
head,  and  turned  it  with  a  keen  and  severe  glance  in  the  direc- 
tion whence  the  voice  had  proceeded.  A  handsome,  slender 
girl  of  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  of  age,  very  simply  attired 
in  black,  but  dark-haired,  dark-eyed,  and  with  animated  fea- 
tures of  southern  symmetry,  was  standing  by  her  side.  This 
was  Nathalie  Montolieu,  chief  and  only  resident  teacher  in  the 
establishment  of  Mademoiselle  Dantin. 

She  was  scarcely  above  the  middle  height  of  woman,  but  of 
a  light  and  erect  figure.  Freedom  and  careless  grace  marked 
her  look,  her  bearing,  and  her  attitude,  even  whilst  she  stood 
there  quietly  by  the  chair  of  the  old  schoolmistress.  As  she 
turned  slightly  to  hear  Mademoiselle  Dantin's  expected  reply, 
with  an  air  too  easy  to  be  dignified,  but  not  free  from  the 
quick,  impatient  pride  of  youth,  the  light  which  fell  full  on  her 
wliole  person,  leaving  all  dark  behind  it,  gave  to  the  outline  of 
her  graceful  figure,  and  to  her  clear  and  well-defined  profile  a 
vivid  distinctness,  still  further  heightened  by  the  shadowy 
background  of  the  ill-lit  room.  The  brow  open  and  poetic, 
with  wavy  hair  braided  back  ;  the  dark  eyes  soft  and  deep 
through  all  their  fire  ;  the  short  upper  lip  and  curved  chin  told 
a  daughter  of  the  sunny  south  ;  and  the  innate  southern  grace 
of  her  half-averted  head  and  listening  attitude  would  have  been 
the  very  desire  of  a  sculptor's  eye.  Yet  hers  was  not  the  still 
beauty  of  cold  art;  it  had  the  light  from  within  which  is  to  a 
countenance  as  is  tlie  lambent  flame  to  the  alabaster  lamp  in 
which  it  burns  ;  the  warm  ray  which  reveals,  though  it  may 
not  create,  its  beauty.  And  in  her  that  ray  seemed,  from  the 
ever-varying  expression  of  her  mobile  features,  to  burn  with  a 
light  as  changeful  as  it  was  clear.  She  had  not  the  soothing 
and  almost  divine  calm  of  perfect  loveliness.  Her  beauty 
charmed  because  it  was  so  liumau  with  the  light  and  bloom  of 
youth,  and  all  the  genial  warmth  of  her  ripening  years.     It  waa 


J  4  NATHAI,IE. 

neither  serene  nor  angcl-like,  but  fervent  and  living ;  not  idealj 
though  highly  poetic. 

Indeed,  to  look  upon  her  as  she  stood  there,  to  see  her  in- 
telligent forehead  and  arched  eyebrows,  to  meet  her  look,  gentle 
though  fearless,  and  seldom  veiled  by  drooping  eyelids,  to  mark 
the  flexibility,  denoting  both  courage  and  a  temper  easily 
moved,  of  her  delicately  chiselled  features,  above  all  to  note 
tho  light,  capricious  smile  of  her  sensitive  and  half-parted  lips, 
— these  lips  of  the  south  averse  to  silence,  and  which  express 
so  quickly  and  so  significantly  frankness,  impatience,  good- 
humored  raillery,  or  angry  disdain, — was  to  know  her  as  one  in 
whom  blended  both  the  highest  and  the  weakest  attributes  of 
an  imaginative  and  impulsive  woman  ;  from  the  energy,  passion, 
and  devotion  of  the  heart  to  the  caprice  and  endless  mobility 
of  temper  destined  to  render  life  as  changeful  as  an  April  day. 

"  Did  you  wish  to  speak  to  me  ?"  she  asked  again,  in  a 
quick,  impatient  tone,  which  rendered  the  fulness  of  her 
southern  voice  and  its  rapid  accent  still  more  apparent. 

She  glanced  down  somewhat  impatiently  as  she  spoke,  and 
the  life  and  warm  coloring  of  her  whole  countenance  contrasted 
strikingly  with  the  stony  look  and  pale,  rigid  features  of  Made- 
moiselle Dantin. 

"  I  did  wish  to  speak  to  you  ;  I  sent  for  you  for  that  ex- 
press pui'pose,  and  you  will  soon  know  why,"  replied  the  school- 
mistress, in  the  long,  nasal  drawl  of  Normandy  :  "  but  first,  may 
I  ask  why,  against  my  express  rule,  you  were  out  in  the  garden 
at  this'  late  hour  ?" 

"  I  did  not  think  the  rule  applied  to  the  holidays,"  quietly 
replied  the  young  girl. 

"  Then  I  beg  to  inform  you  that  it  does." 

An  expression  of  much  annoyance  passed  over  the  features 
of  Nathalie,  but  she  subdued  it,  and  merely  said,  "  Very  well, 
madame." 

"  Indeed,"  resumed  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  '•  I  think  it 
strange  that  you  should  like  the  garden  at  this  hour,  and  I 
should  feel  inclined  to  make  some  remarks  on  the  subject,  did 
I  not  remember  that  as  a  Provenqal,  that  is  to  say,  a  native  of 
that  southern  part  of  France  wliich  has  never  been  remarkable 
for  the  observance  of  feminine  propriety,  you  are  entitled  to  in- 
dulgence." 

A  kindling  light  passed  in  the  dark  eyes  of  the  southern 
girl,  but  the  schoolmistress  never  noticed  it.  and  resumed  in 
the  same  ceremonious,  legal  tone  : 


NATHALIE.  15 

"  Ma}-  1  ask  what  you  were  doing  in  the  garden  at  this  lata 
hour  ?" 

"  I  was  rcadin''" 

"  Some  pernicious  romance,  of  course.  Must  I  ever  keep 
telling  you  that  it  is  dangerous  and  improper  to  feed  your 
mind  with  the  absurdities  which  abound  in  such  works  ?  Must 
I  keep  assuring  you  that  no  character  is  so  ridiculous  as  that 
of  a  romantic  young  lady?" 

"  Romantic  !"  echoed  Nathalie,  with  a  gesture  of  impa- 
tience ;  "  and  what  has  one  in  my  position  to  bo  romantic 
about,  madame  ?  The  realities  of  my  life  are  surely  suf&i^ient 
to  drive  all  romance  away." 

'•  True.  Besides,  you  are  so  sensible  and  so  prudent. 
Will  you  favor  me,  however,  with  the  name  of  the  book  you 
were  reading? 

"  It  was  a  very  harmless  book." 

"  Was  it  a  fiction  ?" 

"  An  innocent  one  at  least." 

"  Which  was,  of  course,  the  reason  vfhy  you  hid  it  in  your 
pocket  before  coming  in  V  said  the  school-misti-ess,  closing  up 
her  thin  lips  with  an  ironical  smile,  and  triumphantly  straight- 
ening her  meagre  neck. 

Nathalie  gave  her  a  quick  look,  dropped  her  eyes,  and  smiled 
demurely. 

"  I  assure  you,  madame,"  she  slowly  observed,  "  that  the 
book  is  a  harmless  book.  Interesting,  however,  for  the  charac- 
ter of  the  hero,  though  somewhat  stern,  is  original  and  striking. 
I  confess  I  like  him  ;  the  whole  story  is,  no  doubt,  melo-dra- 
matic,  but " 

"  How  did  you  get  it  ?"  interrupted  Mademoiselle  Dantin, 
with  a  sort  of  sudden  jerk  in  her  look  and  speech,  which  she 
held  infallible  for  the  detection  of  deceit. 

'•  I  found  it  in  the  garden,  where  it  had  been  left  by  one  oi 
the  pupils,"  quietly  answered  the  young  girl. 

"  One  of  the  pupils  ?  Good  Heavens  !  And  this  is  what 
goes  on  in  spite  of  all  my  vigilance.  Give  me  that  book,  Mad- 
emoiselle 3Iontolieu ;  give  me  that  book,"  she  repeated,  with  a 
sort  of  desperate  calmness  that  seemed  to  say  she  was  quito 
ready  to  obtain  it,  no  matter  what  the  cost  might  be. 

ISathalie  smiled  again,  this  time  rather  scornfully,  but  the 
book  was  produced  and  laid  on  the  table.     Mademoiselle  Dan- 
fin  took  up  the  vohune,  drew  the  light  nearer,  looked,  and 
laying  down  the  book,  gave  the  young  teacher  a  glance  of  ?'^ 
dignant  wi*ath. 


IT)  NATHALfE. 

The  dangerous  fiction  was  a  volume  of  romantic  fairy  tales 
Nathalie's  face  beamed  with  pleasure  and  mischief  as  she  met 
Mademoiselle  Dantin's  look  of  exasperation  ;  but  the  lady 
soon  recovered,  and  merely  observed  in  a  sharp  key  : 

"  I  really  wonder,  Mademoiselle  Montoiieu.you  will  persist 
in  losing  your  time  with  such  foolish  reading.'' 

"  I  took  up  the  book  by  chance.  I  fell  on  a  story  which,  I 
acknowledge  it,  interested  me.  The  chief  character,  though 
dark,  is  not  without  a  mysterious  power  of  attraction." 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  inquired  the  schoolmistress,  with 
slow  and  dignified  amazement,  "  do  you  imagine  I  asked  you 
to  come  here  in  order  to  hear  your  opinion  of  a  fairy  tale  ? 
You  are  guilty  of  the  strangest  absurdities  !  I  suppose  ladies 
in  the  south  talk  in  that  heedless,  flighty  manner.  Remember 
that  in  Normandy  it  will  not  do.  I  beg,  therefore,  that  you 
will — if  it  is  indeed  possible — restrain  your  southern  vivacity 
for  a  few  moments.  May  I  ask  if  you  remember  the  condi- 
tions we  made  when  you  entered  this  house  three  years  ago  ?" 

"  I  remember.     I  was  to  teach  French,  music,  geography." 

"  I  do  not  speak  of  that." 

"  History,  arithmetic,  &c.,  for  the  sum  of  three  hundred 
francs  a  year." 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu.  you  wilfully  misunderstand 
me." 

"  Board  and  lodging  included." 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  !"  exclaimed  the  schoolmistress, 
folding  her  arras,  "  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  remain  silent." 

Nathalie  looked  all  innocence,  but  a  furtive  smile  lurked 
around  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"  If  I  spoke,  madame,"  she  composedly  replied,  "  it  was 
oecause  you  asked  if  I  remembered  the  conditions." 

"  I  alluded  to  moral  conditions  ;  not  to  those  paltry  condi- 
tions of  money,  board,  and  lodging,  on  which  your  mind  is 
always  running." 

"  And  yet,  madame,  you  say  I  am  romantic." 

"  The  moral  part  which  passed  between  us  when  you  en- 
tered this  house  three  years  ago,"  resumed  Mademoiselle  Dan 
tin,  without  heeding  the   young   teacher's  last  remark,  and 
closing  her  eyes  to  speak  v/ith  more  effect,  "related  to  the 
morality,  the  propriety,  the  purity, " 

"  I  think  I  had  better  take  a  scat  to  hear  you,"  quietly 
observed  Nathalie,  and  she  took  one  as  she  spoke,  seating  her- 
self so  as  to  receive  the  full  benefit  of  the  awful  glance  the 


natiiamk.  i? 

schoolmistress  immediatel}'  directed  towards  her  13ut  the 
young  girl,  leaning  lier  elbow  on  tlie  table,  and  resting  her  chin 
on  the  palm  of  her  left  hand,  eyed  her  stern  mistress  without 
impertinsnce,  though  very  composedly.  Her  look,  always  ex- 
pressive, was  now  particularly  so;  it  said  in  plain  language: 
''  I  have  been  called  in  for  a  quarrel — I  know  it — I  am  used  to 
it ;  I  have  tried  to  avoid  it,  but  since  I  cannot,  go  on  ;  I  am 
ready." 

Mademoiselle  Dantin  resumed : 

"  The  moral  part  or  series  of- moral  conditions — I  hold  part 
to  be  quite  as  correct  an  expression,  but  shall  use  '  series'  for 
the  sake  of  clearness — the  series  of  moral  conditions  I  alluded 
to  bore  reference  to  the  propriety,  the  purity,  the  womanly 
reserve  of  your  conduct." 

^  "  In  what  have  I  failed  ?"  asked  Nathalie,  with  an  impetu 
osity  that  showed  patience  did  not  rank  amongst  her  peculiar 
virtues. 

"  Strict  womanly  propriety  and  discretion,"  continued  the 
shoolmistress,  "were  to  be  your  chief  attributes.  Without 
modesty " 

A  flush  crossed  the  brow  of  Nathalie ;  her  voice  trembled 
as  she  spoke : 

"  Your  hints  are  becoming  insulting.     Madame,  beware  !"  ' 

"  If  you  had  condescended  to  hear  me  to  tlie  end,"  said 
Mademoiselle  Dantin,  with  irritating  coolness,  "  there  would 
have  been  no  necessity  for  this  uijfeminine  burst  of  temper. 
And  this  reminds  me  of  another  remark  I  wish  to  make  to 
you:  you  are  in  Normandy,  not  in  Provence;  pray  remember 
it.  You  must  please  to  drop  that  rapid  and  startling  mode  of 
epeecli,  to  talk  a  little  lower,  to  laugh  less,  and  to  keep  your 
southern  blood  and  temper  rather  more  under  your  control. 
What  may  have  been  only  an  agreeable  vivacity  in  your  native 
province,  is  unladylike  and  repulsive  here." 

Nathalie  eyed  her  very  quietly. 

"  You  were  talking  about  modesty,"  she  said,  in  a  tone 
calm  enough  for  the  most  phlegmatic  Normande. 

"  I  was,  and  if  you  will  be  so  good  as  not  to  interrupt  me 
[  mean  to  give  you  a  definition  of  that  virtue.  Modesty  1 
.conceive  to  be  the  strict  guard  which  a  Avoman  of  principle 
keeps  over  her  looks  and  demeanor  with  persons  of  the  opposite 
Bex.     In  that  reserve  you  liavc  failed." 

"  IIow  80?"  asked  Nathalie,  whose  voice  had  already  lost 
some  of  its  calmness. 


18  NATHALIE. 

'■■  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  frigidly  observed  the  sufiool 
mistress,  "  I  have  begged,  I  now  implore  you  not  to  interrupt 
me.  I  will  tell  you  how  you  have  failed :  you  are  vain  ;  you 
think  yourself  handsome  ;  you  flirt,  as  w^ell  as  you  can,  with 
every  man  you  meet.  Oh  !  you  need  not  give  me  that  basilisk 
look  ;  it  is  so.  Your  alluring  ways  in  a  certain  quarter  have 
not  escaped  me.  If  you  were  only  ambitious,  I  should  not 
mind ;  but  the  immodesty  of  the  thing  revolts  me." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  niadame,"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  tapping 
her  foot  with  uncontrollable  impatience,  "  be  so  good  as  to 
say  at  once  the  ill-natured  thing  you  have  been  aiming  at  all 
along." 

'•  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  reproachfully  said  the  school- 
mistress, "  have  you  really  no  idea  of  that  beautiful  feminine 
composure  which  subdues  the  manifestation  of  every  thing  ap- 
proaching emotion  ?  If  you  would  only  remember  that  the 
most  bitter  quarrel  can  and  ought  to  be  conducted  like  a 
logical  discussion ;  if,  instead  of  speaking  in  that  vehement 
way,  you  had  only  said  quietly,  '  Will  you  be  so  good,  madarae, 
as  to  come  to  the  point?'  or  something  of  the  kind.  Made- 
moiselle Montolieu,"  she  feelingly  added,  "  there  is  a  form  in 
every  thing,  and  your  want  of  form  will  break  my  heart." 

She  looked  and  felt  distressed.  If  she  tormented  Nathalie, 
the  young  teacher  certainly  tormented  her  almost  as  much. 
They  were  antipathetic  by  nature,  temperament,  and  birth ; 
theirs  was  the  old  quarrel  of  the  northern  and  southern  races, 
— a  quarrel  which  has  endured  for  ages,  and  will  endure  ages 
Btill.  The  schoolmistress  kept  the  teacher  because  she  was 
full  of  intelligence  and  talent,  and  much  loved  by  the  pupils ; 
the  teacher  remained  because  she  was  poor  and  needed  a  home. 
The  Dantin  discipline  had  failed  to  subdue  her  vivacity  of 
spirit  and  temper :  she  was  still  the  gay  and  yet  ardent  Pro- 
vencal girl,  with  all  the  fire  and  impulsiveness  of  her  race. 
But  though  to  others  she  might  seem  like  the  beauties  of  a 
kindred  land,  with 


*5 


Heart  on  her  lips  and  soul  within  her  eyes, 
Soft  as  her  cUme,  and  sunny  as  her  skies  ; 

the  unhappy  schoolmistress,  who  felt  like  the  keeper  of  some 
young  and  half-wild  thing,  unhesitatingly  pronounced  her  a 
proud,  passionate,  vindictive  southern,  who  would  never  know 
any  thing  about  the  beauties  of  feminine  propriety. 
After  a  moody  pause,  she  now  abruptly  observed : 


NATHALIE.  15 

"  May  1  ask  how  long  you  have  been  acquainted  with  ouf 
neighbor  V 

"What  neiglibor?"  inquired  Nathalie,  with  evident  sur- 
prise. 

"  Our  next-door  neighbor.  I  ask  you  how  Tong  you  have 
been  acquainted  with  him?" 

"  I  have  seen  him  at  a  distance,  but  never  spoken  to  him. 
I  think  your  question  strange." 

"  No  matter.  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  be  frank  for 
once,  and  tell  me  what  you  know  of  our  neighbor?" 

Nathalie  looked  irritated  beyond  measure  at  this  pertina- 
city, but  she  controlled  herself,  and  replied  : 

"  I  know  nothing  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  save  that  he 
is,  as  you  say,  our  next-door  neighbor, — a  gentleman  of  ancient 
birth  and  large  property.  I  have  seen  him  once  or  twice  at  a 
distance,  and  should  not  even  know  him  again  ;  I  care  nothing 
about  him.     I  scorn  your  insinuations." 

Her  face  grew  flushed  as  she  spoke. 

"  She  scorns  my  insinuations  !"  ejaculated  the  schoolmis- 
tress ;  "  scorns  what  insinuations  ?"  she  added  resignedly. 
"  I  am  not  aware  I  made  any  with  regard  to  Jlonsieur  de 
Sainville." 

Nathalie  looked  round,  to  see  her  better. 

'•  On  whom,  then,"  she  abruptly  said,  '•  do  you  accuse  me 
of  practising  my  powers  of  seduction  ?" 

"  Your  powers  of  seduction  !"  iudignantly  echoed  Made- 
moiselk  Dantin,  who  detected  the  disdainful  curl  of  the  lip 
with  which  the  words  had  been  uttered  ;  "  I  certainly  did  not 
accuse  you  of  practising  what  you  thus  unblushingly  allude  to 
on  Monsieur  de  Sainville, — a  grave,  experienced  man,  on  whom 
girlish  arts  or  graces  are  not  very  likely  to  take  effect.  I 
was  not  alluding  to  him,  though  of  course  you  did  not  know 
this,  but  to  his  nephew, — Monsieur  Charles  Marceau." 

"  Oh  !  his  nephew,"  slowly  repeated  Nathalie. 

"  Yes  ;  but  of  course  you  do  not  know  him  ;  of  course  you 
have  never  seen  or  met  him,  though  he  lives  next  door  ;  of 
course  you  do  not  linger  in  the  garden  in  the  evening  in 
order  to  be  seen  or  admired  by  him — oh,  no  !" 

"  I  was  not  prepared,"  ironically  replied  Nathalie,  "  to  find 
my  evening  walks  thus  interpreted  ;  but  let  it  be  a  comfort  to 
you  to  reflect  that  the  garden  wall  is  high  enough  in  all  rea 
Bon  to  protect  M.  Charles  Marceau." 

"  You  need  not  say  that  with  that   triumphant  look,"  re 


XO  NATHALIE. 

turned  the  schoolmistress,  fairly  exasperated ;  your  beauty  ia 
not  quite  so  dangerous  as  all  that ;  as  for  garden-walls,  their 
height  is  of  little  consequence  when  servants  can  be  bribed  to 
convey  messages  or  letters." 

"  Madame,"  said  Nathalie,  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  am  not  pa- 
tient by  nature  ;  I  believe  you  know  it ;  I  warn  you  that  on 
some  points,  and  this  is  one,  I  will  not  be  patient.  I  exact 
that  you  unsay  what  you  have  said,  or  give  me  proof  that  it 
is  true." 

She  spoke  in  a  subdued  key,  but  with  more  real  aiiger  and 
haughtiness  than  she  had  yet  displayed. 

'•  Proof,"  answered  Mademoiselle  Dantln,  with  a  smile  of 
conscious  triumph  ;  "  pray  what  do  you  call  this  ?" 

She  drew  forth  a  letter  from  her  pocket  as  she  spoke, 
placed  it  on  the  table  before  Nathalie,  and  significantly  laid 
the  forefinger  of  her  right  hand  upon  it,  like  one  who  had  all 
along  been  preparing  her  little  coup  de  theatre,  and  knew  its 
value  well. 

"  Nathalie  looked  surprised,  but  took  up  the  letter  and 
read  it  without  any  apparent  sign  of  emotion. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  coolly  laying  it  down  again,  "  what  about 
that  letter,  madame  ?" 

Mademoiselle  Dantin  clasped  her  hands,  turned  up  her 
eyes,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  The  next  thing,"  said  she,  with  wrathful  calmness,  '•'  will 
be  that  you  will  declare  your  right  to  receive  such  letters. 
Or  maybe  I  do  you  injustice,  maybe  you  do  not  see  the  impro- 
priety, because  your  extreme  innocence  prevents  you  from  un 
derstandlng  such  matters.  Poor  little  thing  !  she  reads  fairy 
tales  in  the  garden." 

Nathalie  eyed  her  with  a  firm,  clear  glance. 

"  My  innocence,"  said  she,  very  calmly,  "  is  guarded  by 
something  more  powerful  and  secure  than  ignorance.  I  for 
one  shall  not  feign  to  misunderstand  that  which  is  as  clear  as 
day.  By  sight,  at  lea3t,  I  know  well  the  person  who  wrote 
this  letter ;  the  nephew  of  our  proud  neighbor.  I  have  met 
him  not  once  but  many  times.  He  has  followed  me  when  I 
nave  gone  to  see  my  sister  Rose,  down  in  Sainville,  and  ho 
has  stood  at  a  distance  when  I  took  the  pupils  for  a  walk  on 
the  road  to  Marmont.  When  I  have  been  in  the  garden  of 
this  house,  he  has  generally  been  on  the  terrace  of  his  uncle's 
garden  by  which  it  is  overlooked.  I  confess  that  I  have  not 
given  up  going  to  Sainville,  or  walking  into  the  country,  pro 


NATHALIE.  2i 

tccted  by  the  presence  of  twenty  persons.  I  have  not  given 
up  walking  in  the  garden  protected  by  a  substantial  wall. 
And  now,  madame,  you  know  as  much  as  I  do  of  the  encour- 
agement given  by  me  to  this  M.  Charles  Marceau,  who,  after 
honoinng  me  with  impertinent  attentions,  honors  me  with  a 
still  more  impertinent  declaration  of  what  I  must.  I  suppose, 
oall  his  love." 

"  At  whicli  I  dare  say  you  felt  very  much  ofi'ended  when 
you  received  it,"  sneered  Mademoiselle  Dantin. 

•'  It  is  no  doubt  very  presumptuous  for  me  to  be  offended 
at  any  thing,"  replied  Nathalie,  with  some  bitterness,  '-but  that 
is  not  the  question.  When  I  asked  for  proofs  of  your  accusa- 
tions, you  produced  this  letter.  You  now  say,  '  When  you  re- 
ceived it :'  I  beg  to  say  that  I  received  it  from  your  hands  for 
the  first  time." 

'•  I  found  it  in  your  room,  in  your  drawer,"  said  the 
schoolmistress,  severely. 

"And  pray,"  asked  Nathalie,  angrily,  looking  up,  '-what 
took  you  to  my  room,  or  made  you  look  into  my  drawers?" 

For  a  moment  Mademoiselle  Dantin  seemed  embarrassed, 
but  for  a  moment  only. 

'•  It  was  my  duty,"  she  confidently  replied  :  '•  I  suspected, 
I  knew  there  was  something  wrong." 

'•  But  the  letter  was  sealed  ;  you  broke  the  seal,  and  accuse 
n'le  of  having  read  it  first.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  I  should 
not  have  read  it,  but  I  would  have  mentioned  the  matter  to 
you  to  complain  of  the  insolent  servant  who  had  become  the 
messenger  of  this  vain  and  presumptuous  young  man." 

'•  Admitting  that  you  have  not  read  this  letter,"  inflexibly 
resumed  the  schoolmistress,"  it  is  still  disgraceful  to  have 
received  it.  Such  a  thing  never  before  happened  in  my  estab- 
lishment. This  letter  would  never  have  been  addressed  to  a 
strictly  modest  female.  Men,  bad  as  they  are,  do  not  act  with- 
out some  encouragement.  But  there  are  artful,  designing 
creatures,  ever  ready  to  driw  into  their  nets  any  silly  young 
man  of  family  and  fortune.  I  owe  it  to  the  character  of  my 
house  to  suffer  no  such  persons  in  it.  I  consent  to  bury  the 
past  in  oblivion,"  she  added,  with  a  magnanimous  bend  of  the 
head  ;  "  but  on  the  express  and  clearly  understood  condition, 
that  certain  individuals  I  need  not  mention  by  name,  will 
henceforth  observe  that  purity  and  reserve  which  ought  to 
characterize  their  sex.  Should  this  timely  hint  fail  in  its 
effect,  a  disreputable  dismissal  must  ino.itablybe  the  conso 


22  NATHALIE. 

quericc.  Such  were  the  remarks  I  wished  to  offer  to  you, 
Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  And  now  I  have  a  few  accounts  to 
settle,  you  may  retire." 

Nathalie  rose  ;  her  slender  figure  was  drawn  up,  her  cheeks 
crimsoned  with  shame,  then  grew  pale  with  indignant  anger ; 
her  dark  eyes  were  dilated  and  flashed  proudly ;  her  lip  curled 
with  disdain ;  ire  was  in  her  hearing,  her  accent,  and  her  look, 
as  she  spoke. 

"  Madame  I "  said  she,  with  the  passionate  vehemence  nat- 
ural to  her,  and  which  she  new  no  longer  strove  to  repress, 
"  I  have  resided  three  years  under  your  roof;  I  have  during 
that  time  been  tasked  beyond  endurance, — been  daily  insulted 
and  oppressed.  Never,  however,  did  you  dare  to  venture  so 
far  as  you  have  ventured  to-day.  I  scorn  your  insinuations  ; 
they  are  false,  mean,  and  you  know  it  well.  You  threaten  to 
tarnish  my  name ;  know,  then,  that  strong  in  the  sense  of  my 
own  purity,  I  defy  both  your  power  and  you." 

There  was  a  deep  silence.  Mademoiselle  Dantin  changed 
color,  and  from  pale  turned  yellow ;  then  bit  her  lips,  and  said 
in  a  quivering  voice  : 

"  Mademoiselle,  after  this  i-asolent  speech,  I  need  not  ob- 
serve that  you  must  cease  to  belong  to  my  establishment.  In 
a  month  you  leave." 

Nathalie  haughtily  bent  her  head  in  token  of  assent,  turned 
away,  and  opening  the  glass  door,  stepped  out  into  the  garden 
followed  by  the  angry  and  lowering  glance  of  the  schoolmis- 
tress. 


CHAPTER  11. 

The  evenine,  though  chill,  was  clear.  The  moon  had  risen 
in  the  east,  and  her  calm  light  fell  over  the  narrow  garden.  A 
wide  beech-tree  spread  its  sombre  yet  graceful  masses  in  the 
.'ihade,  whilst  its  silvery  trunk  ancl  foremost  boughs  received 
the  slanting  and  tremulous  rays  of  the  moon.  Beyond  rose  a 
group  of  slender  poplars,  distinct  and  dark  on  the  cloudless 
sky,  and  casting  their  long  line  of  waving  shadow  on  the  green 
riward,  now  of  a  pale  gray  hue,  in  the  cool  moonlight. 

Nathalie  was  bare-headed  and  lightly  clad,  but  she  did  not 
heed  the  cool  and  penetrating  breeze  which  fanned  her  fevered 


NATHALIE.  23 

brow.  She  had  entered  the  garden  because  it  was  the  nearest 
pUice  to  which  she  could  escape  from  Mademoiselle  Dantin's 
presence  ;  she  now  remained  in  it,  regardless  of  the  faint  mist 
which  rose  from  every  group  of  trees  or  mass  of  shrub,  and  of 
the  falling  dew  which  made  the  grass  damp  beneath  her  feet. 
She  walked  along,  not  knowing  whither  she  went,  her  cheek 
still  burning,  her  warm  blood  still  flowing  in  a  more  free  and 
rapid  tide,  her  whole  being  roused  and  excited  by  the  spirit  of 
indignant  defiance.  Her  mind  was  crowded  with  tumultuous 
thoughts  and  feelings.  The  sense  of  freedom  won  and  tri- 
umph achieved  predominated.  She  went  on  in  a  sort  of  dream, 
unconscious  of  any  thing  around  her,  exulting  recklessly  over 
her  dearly-bought  independence.  She  paused  on  reaching  the 
garden  wall,  and  this  simple  physical  barrier  subdued  at  once 
her  haughty  mood.  She  turned  back,  and  slowly  retraced  her 
steps,  with  a  grave  and  altered  mien.  A  wooden  bench  stood 
in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  beech-tree,  she  lingered  for  awhile 
near  it,  motionless  and  pensive,  and  at  length  sat  down,  looking 
before  her  in  the  same  abstracted  mood. 

The  garden  of  Mademoiselle  Dantin  was  a  mere  grassy 
slope,  extending  at  the  back  of  the  low  and  white-walled  school- 
house.  The  parlor  which  Nathalie  had  left,  looked  almost 
dark,  and  a  solitary  light  burned  upstairs  in  the  sleeping  room 
of  the  pupils,  for  a  few  still  remained  in  vacation  time.  She 
abstractedly  watched  their  shadows  moving  to  and  fro  across 
the  curtains,  until  the  light  was  suddenly  extinguished,  and  the 
whole  building  relapsed  into  gloom.  Beyond  the  school,  at 
some  distance  from  it  and  on  a  commanding  eminence,  stood 
the  chateau  of  Sainville,  a  gray,  turreted,  lordly-looking  man- 
sion, embosomed  in  stately  repose,  amidst  a  dark  mass  of  firs 
and  evergreens,  over  which  the  moon  now  hung  mild  and  pale 
in  the  deep  blue  sky  of  evening. 

The  chateau  was,  however,  by  no  means  a  largo  edifice. 
Although  flanked  by  stone  turrets  capped  with  the  conical  slate 
roofs  so  frequently  met  with  in  Normandy,  it  had  evidently 
never  been  intended  as  a  place  of  feudal  strength.  The  light 
and  graceful  porch,  the  ornamental  facade,  belonged  to  tlie 
style  of  the  Reyiaissayicc,  and  showed  it  to  be  what  it  really 
was, — an  elegant  and  luxurious  abode,  no  more.  But  if  the 
edifice  did  not  lead  back  the  beholder's  mind  to  those  far  times 
when  stern  barons  remained  aloof  in  their  fortress  holds,  it 
possessed  a  charm  and  stateliness  of  its  own.  The  days  of  the 
gay  and  chivalrous  Francis  the  First  returned  with  the  light 


24  NATHALIK. 

aud  bx'ulptured  balcoules,  with  the  paved  court  and  marble 
vases,  with  the  broad  lawn,  the  garden  terraces,  and  the  sweep- 
ing avenues  of  the  surrounding  grounds.  It  was  such  a  dwell- 
ing as  the  royal  lover  might,  in  a  fond  mood,  have  bestowed 
on  l)iana  of  Poictiers  ;  a  place  well  suited  to  the  courtly  revels 
of  a  period  celebrated  for  its  wealth,  magnificence,  and  volup- 
tuous art.  It  had  indeed  been  erected  under  the  reign  of  that 
gay  prince  by  a  Sire  de  Sainville,  whose  escutcheon,  with  the 
motto,  ung  f,eul  desir,  was  conspicuously  displayed  over  the 
whole  building.  This  "  only  desire  "  was  said  by  some  to  have 
been  the  possession  of  a  certain  beautiful  damsel ;  others  as- 
serted that  it  alluded  to  the  remarkable  firmness  or  obstinacy 
hereditary  in  the  blood  of  the  Sainvilles.  Of  this  peculiarity 
the  last  descendant  of  that  ancient  race,  who  was  also  the  ac- 
tual owner  of  the  chateau,  had,  according  to  general  report, 
given  abundant  proof.  Left  alone  in  extreme  youth  with  a 
broken  patrimony,  and  a  name  taraished  by  the  profligacy  and 
extravagance  of  his  father,  he  had  gone  to  foreign  lands,  en- 
gaged in  successful  speculations,  and,  after  many  years  of  ar- 
duous toil,  lately  returned  in  the  possession  of  considerable 
wealth,  with  which  he  had  satisfied  the  creditors  of  his  father, 
effaced  the  stain  of  bankruptcy  from  his  escutcheon,  and  repur- 
chased his  paternal  mansion  and  estates.  Little  was  known  of 
his  character,  save  the  pertinacity  of  purpose  indicated  by  this 
trait.  Nathalie  had  heard  him  described  as  a  grave  and  severe 
man,  of  cold  and  haughty  manners.  Such  he  had  seemed  to 
her  when  she  had  seen  him  at  a  distance.  She  now  gazed  on 
the  small,  though  handsome  chateau  as  it  rose  before  her  in  the 
moonlight,  with  a  feeling  akiu  to  bitterness.  A  son  of  that 
house,  conscious  of  superior  rank  and  wealth,  had  thought  fit  to 
press  on  her  attentions  which  he  would  never  have  presumed 
to  offer  to  a  woman  of  a  higher  station.  The  consequence  to 
her  of  this  caprice  was  to  cast  her  unfriended  and  alone  on  a 
world  of  which  she  knew  nothing,  save  that  it  was  harsh  and 
severe  to  the  poor. 

Passing  her  hand  across  her  brow,  Nathalie  endeavored  to 
banish  the  gloomy  thoughts  her  position  suggested.  But  she 
could  not  do  sc.  The  mood  which  had  urged  her  to  defy 
Mademoiselle  Dantin,  which  had  made  her  rejoice  in  her  liber- 
ty, was  over.  She  was  free,  true ;  but  she  felt  she  had  ex- 
changed the  imperious  rule  of  one  mistress  for  that  of  another 
more  tyrannical  still.  Poverty.  There  had  been  a  time  when 
the  meaning  of  this  word  was  to  her  like  a  dream — poverty  in 


NATHALIE.  26 

die  warm  south  is  divested  of  half  its  horrors — but  she  undcr- 
etood  it  now.  This  had  been  a  hard  lesson  to  learn  for  one 
whose  natural  temper  was  as  genial  and  sunny  as  her  own 
Provence.  Brought  up  by  au  old  relative  in  almost  un- 
restrained liberty,  she  had  suddenly  found  herself  cast,  by  the 
death  of  that  relative,  on  her  own  resoui^s.  A  half-sister, 
residing  in  Sainville,  had  procured  her  the  situation  of  teacher 
in  Mademoiselle  Dantin's  school.  The  change  from  the  south 
to  the  north,  from  freedom  to  dependence  and  routine,  from 
affection  to  freezing  indifference,  had  thrown  a  chill  upon  the 
young  girl's  temper,  from  which  it  had  never  recovered.  The 
sliade  of  doubt  had  fallen  on  her  hopeful  faith  ;  the  time  was 
gone  when  she  could  feel  in  herself  the  native  buoyancy  that 
subdues  apprehension  and  fear.  The  more  genial  the  temper, 
the  more  it  will  dread  and  feel  loneliness,  and  Nathalie  was 
alone  ;  she  had  no  relatives,  save  her  half-sister,  a  dependant 
like  herself;  no  friends,  and  no  money.  There  were  no  other 
schools  in  the  little  town  of  Sainville.  one  of  the  most  insignifi- 
cant places  in  all  Normandy  ;  no  families  she  could  enter  as 
governess ;  no  pupils  she  could  teach,  save  those  who  came  to 
Mademoiselle  Dantin's.  Her  future  looked  so  blank  and  so 
dreary  that  her  heart  involuntarily  sank  within  her.  "  What 
on  earth  shall  I  do  ?"  she  asked  herself,  with  an  inward  shud- 
der. One  moment  she  thought  of  making  her  submission  to 
the  schoolmistress,  but  her  whole  pride  rose  against  it.  Any 
fate  seemed  preferable  to  that  humiliation. 

A  low,  grating  sound  near  her  aroused  Nathalie  from  these 
reflections.  She  started  to  her  feet,  and  turned  round  hurried- 
ly, with  a  vague  consciousness  of  the  nature  of  that  sound, 
and  of  the  spot  whence  it  proceeded.  No  building  intervened 
between  the  chateau  of  Sainville  and  the  school ;  a  wall  sepa- 
rated the  wide  grounds  of  the  one  from  the  narrow  garden  of 
the  other  ;  the  little  tenement  now  occupied  by  Mademoiselle 
Dantin  had  formerly  belonged  to  the  gardener  of  the  la*o 
Monsieur  de  Sainville,  and  the  strip  of  land  attached  to  it 
had  been  the  kitchen  garden  of  the  great  house.  A  door  of 
communication  still  existed  between  the  two  gardens  ;  it  stood 
within  a  few  steps  of  the  beech-tree,  and,  though  she  knew 
that  it  was  always  carefully  locked  on  Mademoiselle  Dantin's 
Bide,  Nathalie  now  felt  certain  that  from  it  proceeded  the 
Hounds  she  had  heard. 

She  turned  round — it  was  so  :  the  door  was  opening  slow- 
I3'  and  cautiously  ;  'a  strnnger,  in  whom  slio  had  no  difficulty 

o 


26  NATHALIE. 

to  recognize  Charles  Marceau,  stepped  iu,  aud,  leaving  the 
door  ajar,  turned  quietly  towards  her,  apparently  neitlief 
abashed  nor  discomposed  at  the  audacity  of  his  intrusion. 
Nathalie  looked  at  him  silently,  petrified  with  amazement. 
He  returned  he^Jook.  and  like  her  did  not  speak,  as  if  willing 
to  give  her  time  u)  recover.  Although  she  had  frequently  met 
him,  Nathalie  had  never  yet  beheld  her  admirer  so  nearly ; 
and  notwithstanding  her  anger,  surprise,  and  irritation,  she 
could  not  help  scanning  him  with  a  rapid  and  scrutinizing 
glance. 

Charles  Marceau  was  scarcely  above  the  middle  height, 
v/ith  a  slight  but  well-knit  frame.  He  looked  upwards  of 
twenty-five  ;  he  was  in  reality  some  years  younger,  but  his 
features,  though  remarkably  handsome,  were  thin,  sallow,  and 
careworn.  Nathalie  was  struck  with  their  sharp  decisive  out- 
lines, as  he  stood  before  her  on  the  moonlit  sward,  his  glance 
fixed  upon  her,  and  his  pale  countenance,  half  turned  towards 
her,  rendered  more  pale  by  the  Sark  mass  of  hair  which  fell 
around  it.  The  look  which  she  gave  him  lasted  but  a  moment ; 
the  next  she  turned  away,  and  was  stepping  into  the  path  that 
led  to  the  school,  when,  by  a  sudden  and  dexterous  movement, 
the  young  man  anticipated  her,  and,  though  scarcely  appeax-- 
ing  to  do  so  intentionally,  effectually  impeded  her  passage  by 
standing  before  her. 

"  I  hope,"  said  he,  in  a  respectful  tone,  and  in  a  low, 
though  singularly  harmonious  voice,  "  that  I  have  not  alarmed 
you." 

Nathalie  had  turned  to  give  him  a  quick,  fearless  look  ;  the 
silent  curl  of  her  lip  spoke  of  a  feeling  very  difi'erent  from 
fear. 

"  I  see  yoa  are  deeply  offended,"  he  resumed,  eyeing  her  at- 
tentively ;  "  be  so  good " 

'  Be  so  good  as  to  let  me  pass,"  sharply  said  Nathalie. 

^  But  one  word,  and  I  depart,"  he  humbly  continued.  "  Did 
you  receive  my  letter  ?" 

"  Ay,  sir,  from  the  hands  of  Mademoiselle  Dantin." 

A  slight  raising  of  the  eyebrow,  a  brief  projection  of  the 
nether  lip,  and  the  word  "  Indeed  !"  cooly  uttered,  were  tho 
only  marks  of  surprise  or  annoyance  the  young  man  mani" 
fested. 

"  Then  I  suppose  the  girl  has  betrayed  me,  after  all,"  he 
composedly  observed,  casting  an  inquiring  glance  towards  Na 
thalie. 


NATHALIE.  2T 

Her  color  ro^o  ;  she  looked  as  if  she  -would  give  iiim  an  an- 
nihilating reply ;  then  drew  back,  turning  her  head  away  as  il 
in  scorn  of  speech.  She  would  have  moved  on  ;  once  more  ho 
stepped  before  her  and  spoke,  but  now  with  downcast  look  and 
beseeching  tone. 

"  Do  not — pray  do  not  turn  away  so  indignantly.  Allow  nic 
but  one  word  more.     Did  that  letter  offend  you  V 

"  No  questions,  sir,"  said  Nathalie,  angrily  ;  "  leave  me  ero 
I  summon  assistance." 

Her  tone  was  indignant,  though  subdued.  The  young  man 
met  her  irritated  glance  as  she  stood  close  by  him  in  the  clear 
moonlight,  pausing  ere  she  once  more  endeavored  to  pass  by ; 
he  marked  the  angry  flush  which  crimsoned  her  cheek  and 
brow,  and  his  own  countenance  expressed  more  vexation  and 
surprise  than  alarm  at  the  threat  she  had  issued. 

"  Nay,  heaven  forbid  you  should  be  placed  under  any  such 
necessity,"  he  somewhat  sharply  replied  ;  '•  could  I  have  formed 
some  other  method  of  meeting  you,  I  would  never  have  adopt 
ed  this.  But  remember,  you  seldom  go  out ;  you  are  always 
accompanied  ;  I  may  look,  but  never  speak  ;  if  I  write,  my  let- 
ters are  seized.  Was  I  then  to  trust  to  chance,  or  presump- 
tuously hope  that,  meeting  me  so  often,  you  would  at  length 
guess  why  I  ever  lingered  around  your  path?" 

He  had  begun  almost  haughtily,  but  his  voice  had  a  low  and 
harmonious  cadence  as  he  concluded. 

■''  Will  you  let  me  pass,  or  not  ?"  imperatively  asked  Natha- 
lie. 

He  bit  his  lip.  but  bowed  and  stepped  back  a  few  paces  in 
silent  humility.  Nathalie  very  unceremoniously  passed  by 
him  ;  he  followed,  observing,  in  a  low  apologetic  tone  : 

"  Believe  me,  but  for  the  tyranny  of  Mademoiselle  Dantin, 
I  should  never ■• 

"Go  on,  sir,  go  on,"  exclaimed  a  shrill  and  exasperated 
voice  behind  him  ;  "it  is  charming  to  hear  you.  I  am  delight- 
ed. Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  to  find  you  so  pleasantly  engaged." 

Charles  Marceau  turned  round  hastily.  Mademoiselle 
Dantin,  who  had  approached,  unheard  and  unseen,  was  stand- 
ing close  by  him.  For  a  moment,  the  young  man  looked  dis- 
turbed. Nathalie,  thougli  she  knew  well  the  consequences  of 
this  new  misfortune,  stood  ready  to  meet  them,  resolute,  though 
motionless  and  pale  The  schoolmistress,  her  tall  and  thin 
frame  drawn  up  to  its  fall  height,  her  arms  folded  acro.ss  her 
breast,  eyed  them  both  with  a  moody  glance,  slowly  nodding 
her  head  with  vindictive  triumph. 


S8  NATHALIE. 


a 


Well,*'  said  she,  sharply,  '•  why  don't  you  go  ou '?  why 
don't  you  continue  your  interesting  conversation  ?  I  hope  1 
don't  prevent  you." 

She  did  not  seem  very  likely  to  prevent  Charles  Marceau 
for,  turning  once  more  towards  Nathalie,  he  coolly  resumed 
from  where  he  had  left  off. 

"  I  should  never  have  presumed  to  act  as  I  have  acted. 
This  imprudence  has  injured  me — ^justly,  perhaps — in  your 
good  opinion  ;  yet  may  I  hope  that  you  will  forgive  me  ?" 

He  looked  up  into  her  face,  as  if  anxiously  waiting  for  her 
reply.  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  astounded  at  his  coolness,  and  at 
the  impertinent  disregard  with  which  he  seemed  to  treat  her 
presence,  glared  at  him  in  speechless  wrath.  When  she  spoke 
at  length,  the  whole  torrent  of  her  indignation  was  poured 
forth  on  Nathalie. 

"I  am  delighted,"  said  she, with  a  short  exasperated  laugh, 
"  pleased  beyond  measure,  to  perceive  that  Mademoiselle  Mon- 
tolieu,  that  pattern  of  propriety,  that  model  of  virtuous  indig- 
nation, entertains  no  great  objection  to  a  quiet  evening  rendez- 
vous. By  moonlight  too  ; — how  sentimental !  They  are  fond 
of  the  moonlight  in  the  south ;  here  we  think  it  cool." 

Nathalie  gave  her  a  kindling  look,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  Pray  forgive  me :  I  feel  it  was  wrong,  very  wrong,  in- 
deed, to  penetrate  here,  without  your  permission,"  said  Charles 
Marceau,  addressing  Nathalie,  but  half  glancing  towards  the 
schoolmistress. 

"  I  hope,"  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  in  a  shrill  tone, 
•■  I  sincerely  hope  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  will  attempt  no  use- 
less or  absurd  justification.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  knows  I 
am  not  to  be  duped.  She  knows  the  garden  door  was  not  only 
locked,  but  bolted  on  this  side  of  the  wall,  and  that  by  some 
individual  on  this  side  of  the  wall,"  she  added,  raising  her 
voice,  "  the  bolt  must  therefore  have  oeen  withdrawn.  I  con- 
sider this  as  clear  a  proposition  as  any  in  the  '  Grammairo 
Logique,'  or  any  legal  case  I  ever  heard  of" 

"Madame,"  said  Charles  Marceau,  turning  towards  her 
with  something  like  hauteur,"  I  pledge  you  my  word  that  Ma- 
demoiselle Montonlieu  is  free  from  all  blame ; — that  I  alone 
am  guilty." 

The  schoolmistress  shut  her  eyes,  and  turned  up  her  nose, 
with  a  short,  disdainful  sniff;  but  she  deigned  him  neither 
reply  nor  answering  look.     He  resumed  : 

"  I  hope,  therefore,  that  the  innocenee  of  Mademoisello 
Montolieu " 


NATIIAUE.  29 

"Sparc  }Ourself  the  task  of  its  justikcation,  sir,"  coldly 
Interrupted  Nathalie.  '•  I  need  none,  if  Mademoiselle  Dantin 
has  overheard  all." 

"  I  did,"  triumphantly  answered  the  schoolmistress,  nod- 
ding her  head,  as  she  spoke,  "  I  heard  every  word.  I  hear 
every  thing  in  this  establishment,  Mademoiselle  Montolieu." 

"  Then  surely  you  know  I  am  not  to  blame,"  observed  Na- 
thalie, with  some  impatience. 

'■  Oh,  no  !  Of  course  not  at  all  !"  «aid  Mademoiselle  Dan- 
tin,  gently  inclining  her  head,  and  eyeing  Nathalie,  through 
her  half-shut  eyes. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  hint  that  this  gentleman  is  here  with  my 
connivance  V  exclaimed  Nathalie,  with  that  impetuosity 
which  always  gave  so  much  advantage  to  her  opponent. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  replied  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  '•  by  no  means. 
You  admit  him !  Impossible  !  It  was  I  let  him  in,  cer- 
tainly." 

Indignation  and  contempt  struggled  for  mastery  in  Natha- 
lie's expressive  countenance.  Her  head  drooped ;  she  raised 
her  hand  to  her  forehead.  When  she  spoke,  her  tone  was 
altered  and  low. 

"  May  heaven  forgive  you  ;  you  are  more  unjust, — aye,  and 
far  more  cruel,  than  I  thought  you." 

This  speech  did  not  tend  to  pacify  the  schoolmistress,  who, 
to  do  her  justice,  thought  the  young  girl  guilty  ;  perhaps  be- 
cause she  wished  to  think  her  so  ;  and  though  she  had  wit- 
nessed the  meeting  at  a  distance,  had  only  overheard  the 
observation  in  which  Charles  Marceau  so  unluckily  introduced 
her  name.     She  now  loftily  observed  : 

"  You  need  not  give  yourself  such  airs  of  injured  inno- 
cence ;  a  pure-minded  woman,  who  regarded  either  her  health 
or  her  reputation,  would  never  have  stayed  out  in  the  open  air 
until  this  hour." 

"  I  think,  madame,"  interposed  Charles  Marceau,  "  that  I 
already  explained " 

"  13e  so  kind  as  to  understand  that  the  month's  notice  I 
gave  you  this  evening  is  rescinded,"  continued  Madcmoiscllti 
Dantin,  totally  disregarding  the  young  man's  attempted  expla- 
nation. "  After  your  disgraceful  conduct,  you  cannot  remain 
another  night  under  the  shelter  of  this  uncontaminated  roof" 

"  Madame,"  impatiently  observed  Charles  Marceau,  '■  havo 
I  not  pledged  you  my  word  of  honor  that  I  alone  am  to  blame 
— that  this  lady  is  wholly  innocent  ?" 


30  NATHALIb. 

He  spoke  politely  still,  but  with  the  authoritative  surpris<» 
of  a  superior  addressing  a  person  of  inferior  rank.  The  school- 
mistress eyed  him  from  head  to  foot,  then  raised  her  looi 
again  until  it  met  his. 

'•  Sir,"  said  she,  at  length,  '■  I  forgive  your  presumption, 
on  account  of  your  extreme  youth  ;  but  you  will  please  to  re- 
member I  am  mistress  of  these  premises.  Be  so  kind  as  to 
f|uit  them  instantly." 

Without  heeding  her,  the  young  man  turned  towards 
Nathalie. 

'•  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  in  a  submissive  tone,  which  con- 
trasted with  the  superciliousness  he  had  displayed  towards 
the  schoolmistress,  "  words  could  not  express  the  penitent 
sorrow  I  feel." 

"  I  dare  say  not,"  cried  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  with  a  short, 
hysterical  laugh. 

"  Will  my  presence  here  be  of  the  least  use  to  you  ?'•'  he 
earnestly  continued.  "  Say  but  a  word ;  and  though  this 
should  expose  me  to  the  most  bitter  mortifications,  I  shall 
remain." 

"  Remain  !"  echoed  the  schoolmistress,  with  shrill  indig- 
nation. "  Monsieur  will  remain  to  protect  mademoiselle ! 
Well,  I  should  like  to  see  that.     Remain  !" 

Not  heeding  her  words  more  than  the  breeze  which  swept 
by  him,  Charles  Marceau  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  Nathalie,  si 
lently  awaiting  her  reply.  The  young  girl  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  and  tapped  her  little  foot  with  evident  impatience. 

"  You  may  go,  sir,"  she  said,  in  her  hasty  way.  "  Your 
presence,  though  quite  able  to  produce  mischief,  is  powerless 
for  good." 

'•  Oh  !  he  may  go,  may  he  ?"  sharply  ejaculated  Mademoi- 
selle Dantin.  '•  How  fortunate  mademoiselle  permits  her 
knight  to  depart !  There  is  no  knowing,  however,  that  I, 
though  neither  young  nor  pretty,  might  not  have  found  means 
to  effect  the  same  marvel." 

The  young  man  heeded  her  not ;  he  was  looking  at  Natha- 
lie, and  his  gaze  had  something  of  offended  pride,  anger,  sad- 
ness, and  reproach.  But  his  glance  fell  at  length  ;  he  bowed 
in  silent  submission,  and  folding  his  arms  across  his  breast, 
slowly  turned  down  the  path. 

The  sound  of  the  door,  which  closed  behind  him,  revealed 
that  he  had  left  the  place.  Not  satisfied  with  this  evidence. 
Mademoiselle  Dantin  threw  a  keen  look  around  her.     On  per- 


NATHALIE.  3 1 

oeiving  tliat  he  was  really  gone,  she  went  and  bolted  the  door 
carefully,  then  returned  to  the  spot  where  Nathalie  was  still 
ptanding. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  young  girl  did  not  change  her  attitude  ;  she  stood  or 
the  sward,  erect  and  calm.  The  heech-trec  threw  its  dark 
shadow  behind  her,  but  the  clear  moonlight  fell  on  her  face. 
She  looked  pale,  though  sedate ;  one  hand  supported  her 
cheek,  the  other  was  rather  nervously  stripping  a  neighboring 
shrub  of  its  leaves.  Her  heart,  perchance,  beat  fast  within 
her  as  she  saw  ruin  and  disgrace  so  near,  but  her  brow  was  as 
fearless  as  her  look  was  steady ;  her  lips  were  firmly  com- 
pressed as  if  she  had  resolved  not  to  speak  inconsiderately, 
though  by  no  means  to  remain  silent.  She  looked  not  unlike 
the  mariner  who  sees  the  shore  on  which  he  must  be  wrecked 
ere  long,  but  who  beholds  it  with  unquailing  eye  and  heart 
unappalled  by  danger.  As  her  glance  met  that  of  the  school- 
mistress its  resolute  meaning  roused  all  her  ire  ;  she  eyed  her 
for  awhile  with  sour  sternness. 

"  You  have  heard  me,"  she  said  at  length. 
''What  have  I  heard?" 
"  That  you  must  leave  to-night." 
"  Why  so  ?" 

Different  as  their  voices  were,  they  both  spoke  in  the  same 
iaterjectional  and  rapid  tone,  exchanging  looks  that  boded 
not  peace. 

'•  Why  so  ?"  again  asked  Nathalie,  and  she  drew  herself  up 
haughtily,  as  if  to  rej^el  with  all  her  might  the  expected  accu- 
sation and  insult. 

"Because,  the  schoolmistress  steadily  replied,  "we  area 
calm  phlegmatic  race,  and  decidedly  object  to  moonlight  walka 
and  meetings ;  because  this  is  Normandy,  not  Provence, 
where  such  things  are,  I  suppose,  a  matter  of  course." 

AVhenever  Mademoiselle  Dantin  wished  to  rouse  the 
young  girl,  she  taunted  her  with  her  mother's  birth.  TiiG 
urOiV  of  Nathalie  flushed  directly. 

'•  You  are  right,  madame,"  she  quickly  answered ;  '•  no, 
we  are  not  in  Provence  :  for  there  men  have  chivalrous  honor 


32  NATHALIE. 

and  women  warm,  generous  hearts,  unknown  to  this   land  ol 
lawyers,  lawsuits,  and  narrow  feeling." 

"  Oh  !  you  may  give  me  your  killing  looks,"  said  Mademoi 
selle  Dantin,  shaking  her  head,  "  I  am  not  afraid,  though  1 
have  heard  that  your  Provenqal  and  Basque  girls  regularly 
wear  a  stiletto,  instead  of  a  busk  to  their  stays,  like  those 
shocking  Spanish  women." 

"  Madame,"  replied  Nathalie,  shrugging  her  shoulders,  after 
the  French  fashion,  with  disdainful  impatience,  "  we  are  wan- 
dering from  the  point." 

'•  The  point,"  sharply  said  the  schoolmistress,  "  is  that  you 
must  leave  this  very  night." 

"  I  again  ask  why  ?"  inquired  Nathalie,  eyeing  her  steadily. 

"  Because  your  behavior  has  been  improper,  unwomanly, 
immodest." 

Nathalie's  lips  quivered,  her  color  rose  and  died  away,  until 
it  settled  in  a  bright  burning  spot  on  either  cheek.  Shame, 
indignant  anger,  proud  resentment  of  wrong  were  in  her  bear- 
ing and  her  look.  Dignity  vainly  whispered  to  turn  away 
with  silent  scorn ;  Nathalie  was  too  unsophisticated  to  yield 
to  its  promptings  ;  if  ever  she  was  or  seemed  dignified,  it  was 
because  her  mood  led  her  to  be  so ;  but  now  she  recked  not 
of  eflfect ;  insult  had  stung  and  roused  her,  as  only  insult  can 
sting  and  rouse ;  passion  was  strong  and  would  speak. 

"  I  am  not  unwomanly  or  immodest,"  she  passionately 
ci-ied,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  through  tears,  her  voice  broken  by 
ill-repressed  sobs ;  "  I  am  not,  but  you  are  a  very  bad  and 
cruel  woman.  To  dismiss  me  is  nothing,  but  to  ruin  my  repu- 
tation and  fair  name  is  abominable.  I  did  not  let  that  young 
man  in  ;  I  did  not  know  he  was  coming  ;  you  must,  you  do 
know  that." 

The  most  evil  are  not  all  pitiless,  and  Mademoiselle  Dan- 
tin,  who  was  not  a  cruel,  but  an  inflexible  formalist,  perhaps 
began  to  suspect  that  she  had  wrongly  accused  the  young  girl  ; 
perhaps  her  threat  of  instant  dismissal  had  only  been  held  out 
to  give  rise  to  an  appeal  for  mercy ;  it  may  even  be  that  some 
vague  feeling  of  compassion  induced  her  to  relent.  Whatever 
was  the  reason,  she  at  least  now  said  something  about  permit- 
ting her  to  spend  the  night  in  the  house ;  she  even  hinted 
that,  provided  a  proper  submission  were  made  to  her  ofi"ended 
majesty,  she  might  be  induced  not  to  speak  of  the  meeting  sh« 
bad  detected.  But  Nathalie  was  in  no  placable  mood ;  sh< 
resented  this  seeming  concession  as  another  implied  insuU. 
but  to  be  repelled  with  haughty  disdain. 


NATHALIE.  33 

"Never!"  she  exclaimed,  with  true  southern  energy; 
"  submit  when  I  am  innocent, — when  I  have  done  no  wrong. 
Never !  As  for  spending  the  night  in  this  house,  after  the 
words  you  have  uttered,  I  will  not.  In  my  country,"  she  add- 
ed, emphatically,  "we  are  either  at  peace  or 'at  enmity.  Now 
I  tell  you  that  I  am  not  at  peace  with  you,  that  I  will  not 
sleep  beneath  your  roof." 

'•She  is  positively  getting  blue  with  anger."  cried  Mademoi- 
selle Dantin.  with  a  bewildered  look. 

"  I  have  borne  with  ill-temper,"  continued  Nathalie,  "  with 
petty  annoyances,  not  patiently — I  am  not  patient — but  tvith- 
out  more  than  passing  anger.  I  considered  that  your  years — " 

"  My  3'ears  !" 

"  Your  early  disappointments  jad  naturally  soured  your 
temper." 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolicu,  if  by  early  disappointments  you 
allude  to  my  not  being  married " 

"  I  allude  to  nothing,  but  I  say  that  when  you  attack  my 
honor  I  will  resent  it  with  all  my  might ;  that  when  you  turn 
against  me  the  stiletto,  called  slander,  I  will  not  be  your  guest, 
eat  your  bread,  touch  your  salt,  or  sleep  beneath  your  roof  I 
shall  spend  this  night  at  the  inn,  and  be  on  my  road  to  Paris 
or  Provence  to-morrow.  Say  of  me  all  you  can  say ;  I  do  not, 
I  will  not  fear  you." 

She  abruptly  turned  awa^',  and  when  Mademoiselle  Dantin 
recovered  from  the  stupor  into  which  this  daring  speech  had 
thrown  her,  Nathalie  had  almost  reached  the  end  of  the 
garden. 

"  Good  heavens  !  what  a  tongue!"  exclaimed  the  schoolmis- 
tress, drawing  in  a  long  breath. 

She  slowly  returned  to  the  house  which  she  re-entered  by  a 
Bide  door,  whilst  Nathalie  stopped  for  a  while  near  the  glass 
door  of  the  parlor.  The  reaction  of  passion  had  come — she 
was  weeping;  but  the  weakness  was  brief;  she  shook  her  tears 
away,  smiled  to  herself  and  entered  the  "  salon,"  as  it  waa 
called,  where  a  solitary  light  still  burned  on  the  table.  Sho 
was  passing  rapidly  through  the  room,  when  an  anxious  voice 
exclaimed : 

'' 3Iadcmoisclle  Natlialie,  what  mean  those  pearly  drops?" 

Nathalie  turned  quickly  round  and  stopped  on  beholding 
the  little  Chevalier,  whom  she  had  not  perceived.  He  briskly 
stepped  forward  and  eyed  with  evident  emotion  her  flushed 
f&oe,  on  which  indignant  tears  still  glistened. 

2» 


84  NATHALIE. 

"  I  have  been  insulted,  Chevalier,"  she  said  in  her  rapid 
way." 

"  Insulted  by  whom  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  frown. 

"  By  a  certain  neighbor  of  ours,  who  imagined,  no  doubt,  1 
had  been  pleased  with  impertinent  attentions,  and  by  a  certain 
lady  of  this  house  who  chose  to  share  this  belief" 

The  Chevalier  looked  grave.  He  might  in  a  lady's  defence 
call  out  a  gentleman,  but  he  could  not  exactly  call  out  another 
lady. 

"  This  must  be  a  mistake,"  he  at  length  observed  ;  "  mia- 
takes  will  occur  even  between  amiable  ladies,  especially  when 
there  is  southern  vivacity  on  one  side  and  northern  prudence 
on  the  other.     There  must  be  an  {idaircissemcnt." 

Nathalie  shook  her  head. 

"  Chevalier,"  she  said,  calmly  enough,  for  her  anger  was  as 
brief  as  it  was  vehement ;  "  I  grant  that  Mademoiselle  Dantiu 
is  mistaken  ;  that  if  she  has  tormented  me,  I  have  provoked 
her ;  but  no  ^claircisscmcnt  could  now  make  me  stay  here. 
We  agree  like  fire  and  water,  with  this  difference  that  she 
cannot  quench  me.  Faulty  I  may  be,  but  she  is  not  the  one 
by  whom  I  can  be  changed.  She  will  do  me  justice  in  this 
matter  later  ;  I  hope  and  think  so ;  if  not,  let  it  be  ;  my  own 
conscience  acquits  me ;  I  care  little  for  verdict.  I  am  going 
this  very  night — adieu." 

The  little  dancing-master  drew  back  with  a  step  expressive 
of  dismay. 

"  Mademoiselle  !"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  going  !  No,  allow  me  : 
ray  feelings  will  not  admit  it — it  cannot  be." 

He  seemed  filled  with  so  much  consternation  that  Nathalie 
could  not  repress  a  smile.  He  appeared  to  hesitate ;  but  at 
length  decisively  observed  : — ■"  Will  Mademoiselle  Montolieu 
allow  me  a  question  :  that — that  gentleman V 

His  look  finished  the  sentence.  She  colored  a  little  and 
said : — 

"  Well,  Chevalier,  what  about  that  gentleman  ?" 

The  little  dancing-master  coughed  :  it  was  so  delicate  a 
subject,  and  he  had  such  a  deep,  almost  painful  respect  for 
female  delicacy,  of  which  Mademoiselle  Dantin  had  contributed 
to  give  him  the  most  refined  idea. 

"  Did  he  venture  on  language,  too — too — ardent  V  he  ob- 
acrved  with  a  frown. 

"  Oh  !  no,"  quietly  replied  Nathalie,  '•  it  was  much  worse." 

"  Much  worse  !"  echoed  the  Chevalier,  and  visions  of  a  kisg 


NATHALIE.  33 

Stolen  from  the  fair  hand  of  the  Provencal  jrirl,  rendered  tho 
modest  little  man  mute  and  abashed  with  indignation. 

"  Yes.  much  worse,"  decisively  replied  Nathalie  ;  "  what  da 
I  care  about  the  courtesy  or  reserve  of  manner,  when  the 
actions  are  bold  and  insulting  ?  He  has  followed  me,  written 
to  me,  and  finally  contrived  a  meeting  in  the  garden,  all  with- 
out any  encouragement  save  what  he  derived  from  his  owu 
presumption." 

She  looked  indignant  as  she  spoke. 

The  Chevalier  was  no  doubt  devoted  to  the  ladies,  but  still 
he  was  a  man,  and  could,  in  matters  of  the  heart,  feel  for  his 
own  sex  ;  he  could,  as  he  expi-essed  it  with  a  sigh,  "sympathize 
with  the  follies  and  delirium  of  youthful  passion  ;■'  and,  pro- 
vided that  profound  respect  due  to  every  woman  were  not  in- 
fringed, he  could  tolerate  almost  any  extravagance  of  conduct. 
It  was,  Iw  contended,  one  of  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the 
fair  sex,  to  make  men  act  extravagantly  ;  and  the  greater  the 
folly  the  deeper  the  love.  He  now  charitably  endeavored  to 
convince  Nathalie  of  this  truth.  No  doubt  her  admirer  had 
been  much  to  blame,  but  it  was  all  the  fault  of  his  bewildering 
passion ;  he  had  endeavored  to  make  that  passion  known  by 
looks,  writing  and  speech.  "  And  as  for  his  getting  in  by  the 
door,"  feelingly  added  the  dancing-master,  '•  is  it  not  much 
better  than  scrambling  over  the  wall,  as  so  many,  unable  to 
control  their  feelings,  would  have  done  in  his  place  ?  a  pro- 
ceeding certainly  more  ofi'cnsivc  to  a  lady's  delicacy  than  that 
which  he  adopted." 

Nathalie  heard  him  with  a  patient  smile.  She  liked  the 
gentle  Chevalier  with  his  old-fashioned  courtesy  of  bygone 
times,  with  his  reverence  for  love,  passion  and  women.  Made- 
moiselle Dantin  invariably  drew  forth  the  least  amiable  points 
in  her  character,  but  the  Chevalier  had  the  power  to  soften 
her  down  to  girlish  gentleness  and  grace.  She  quietly  clasped 
her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  looking  down  into  his  face,  said 
softly : — 

"You  do  not  think  me  prudish,  do  you?" 

'•  No,  no,"  he  warmly  replied ;  "  it  is  the  beautiful,  the  sen- 
eitive  delicacy  of  woman." 

"  No,  it  is  not  that,"  said  the  young  girl,  smiling  and  draw- 
ing up  her  slender  figure,  '•  it  is  pride ;"  and  there  was  pride 
in  her  dark  eye,  curling  lip.  and  erect  bearing. 

"  But  surely  not  a  pride  that  forbids  you  to  pity  the  un- 
happy passions  you  have  inspired  ?"  urged  the  tender-hearted 
Chevalier. 


36  NATHALIE. 

"  What  passion  ?  He  has  seen  me  a  few  times,  never  so 
much  as  spoken  to  me  before  to-night ;  what  passion  can  he 
feel  ?" 

The  ChcTalier,  too  delicate  to  speak  more  openly,  shook  his 
head  and  sighed  in  the  direction  of  the  looking-glass  over  the 
mantle-shelf  Nathalie  looked  at  first  unconscious  of  his 
meaning,  but  as  she  saw  her  own  image  reflected  back  in  the 
shadowy  depths  of  the  mirror^  she  blushed,  and  smiled  at  the 
compliment. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  he  finds  me  pretty,"  she  said,  resolutely 
conquering  a  little  hesitation  at  speaking  so  frankly;  "but  how 
can  I  esteem  the  man  who  likes  me  for  my  face,  without  so 
much  as  knowing  my  heart,  mind,  or  temper  ?  You  would  not 
act  or  feel  thus." 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  seriously  replied  the  Chevalier, 
laying  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and  looking  down  as  he  spoke, 
"  must  appeal  to  some  less  sensitive  judge.  I  cannot,  alas  f 
but  confess  the  power  of  beauty.  I  may  also  venture  to  hint 
to  her  that  there  are  roy.^teries  as  yet  unrevcaled  to  her  heart ; 
that  love  conveys,  in  the  slightest  glimpse,  an  accurate  know- 
ledge of  the  beloved  object ;  and  that  a  particular  friend  of  mine 
onee  received  from  the  sight  of  a  foot  an  impression  never  to 
bo  erased." 

"A  foot !"'  exclaimed  Nathalie,  laughing  men-ily,  "  why  how 
can  this  be  ?" 

But  the  Chevalier  remained  quite  grave,  and  assured  he? 
that  in  a  man  of  delicate  feelings  and  sensitive  heart  such  a 
passion  was  perfectly  natural.  As  to  the  particular  process  by 
which  the  first  impression  ripened  into  love,  he  bashfully  de- 
clared that  speech  was  powerless  to  describe  it,  and,  as  Nathalie 
laughingly  insisted,  he  quietly  begged  to  change  the  subject. 
The  young  girl  perceiving  that  his  modesty  was  getting  alarm- 
ed, immediately  became  serious ;  he  resumed  their  previous 
conversation  by  saying : 

"  Let  me  also  observe,  in  favor  of  the  unhappy  young  man 
— I  call  eveiy  man  unhappy  who  sufi"ers  from  a  lady's  dis- 
pleasure— that  his  uncle,  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  is  generally 
considered  a  man  of  singular  coldness  and  pride;  a  man  whose 
haughty  will " 

Nathalie  interrupted  him,  and  said  briefly : 

'•  The  man,  sir,  who  dares  not  confess  such  feelings  open- 
ly, is  not  worthy  of  having  them  returned.  This  Monsieur 
Marceau   sought,  for  his  owu  sake,  a  concealment  which  haa 


rfATHALIS.  37 

eeriously  injured  me.  He  dared  not  have  acted  so  -witli  a 
great  lady ;  but  I  was  poor  and  obscure — therefore  he  ventur- 
ed. There  might  have  been  something  like  courage  in  hi? 
conduct  had  I  the  stern  father,  uncle,  or  guardian,  of  a  heroine 
of  romance  to  brave  ;  but  I  had  not.  and  therefore  is  his  action 
paltry.  I  am  alone,  undefended,  and  he  showed  me  that  he 
knew  it." 

"  No,  not  alone,  not  undefended,  whilst  Theodore  ie  Meran- 
ville-Louville  has  the  breath  of  life  and  the  heart  and  arm  of  a 
roan,"  fervently  exclaimed  the  gallant  little  dancing-master, 
half  kneeling  at  her  feet  in  a  transport  of  chivalrous  ardor. 

In  her  surprise  Nathalie  stepped  back.  She  knew  not  the 
powerful  impression  her  words  had  produced  on  the  gentla  and 
generous  nature  of  the  Chevalier.  He  beheld  her,  a  young  and 
lovely  girl,  in  need  of  protection,  and  saw  nothing  better  than 
to  offer  himself  with  prompt  zeal  for  the  defence  of  her  person 
and  honor.  It  was  not  the  little  man's  fault  if  he  came  in  this 
world  ages  after  chivalry  had  gone  out  of  fashion  ;  still  less  his 
fault,  if  nature  and  fortune,  whilst  giving  him  the  soul  and 
illusive  name,  had  denied  him  the  shape  and  profession  of 
knight.  Nathalie  promptly  understood  him  ;  she  was  both 
amused  and  touched,  and  smiled  down  on  the  dancing-master 
through  gathering  tears. 

"  Rise,  Sir  Chevalier,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand  to 
him,  and  entering  with  southern  mirth  and  vivacity  into  the 
spirit  of  the  tone  he  assumed ;  "  if  ever  I  need  defender  or 
knight,  I  will  have  none  save  you." 

Enraptured  at  this  promise,  the  Chevalier  kissed  the  tips 
of  her  fingers,  and  rose  with  the  triumphant  mien  of  a  knight 
received  into  the  favor  of  a  fair  lady,  whilst  with  a  smile  that 
gradually  became  more  arch,  she  continued : 

"  But  I  need  not  remind  a  man  of  your  worldly  tact,  that 
the  time  is  gone  when  ladies  sought  or  accepted  the  vindica- 
tion of  their  honor  from  the  strong  arm  of  man." 

"And  why  should  it  be  gone  7"  he  somewhat  jealously  ex 
claimed ;  "  why  should  not  the  strong  arm  of  man,  as  you  so 
justly  observe,  be  stretched  forth  to  protect  innocence  and 
beauty  ?" 

"  Because  the  world  is  a  slanderous  world,"  replied  Nathalie 
with  a  serious  face,  but  mirth  and  mischief  in  her  eyes  ;  "  be 
cause  it  would  be  sure  to  say  that  nothing  save  the  most  violent 
passion  could  impel  the  Chevalier  to  take,  so  energetically,  tbfl 
defenoe  of  Mademoiselle  Montolieu." 


§S  NATHALIE. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  exclaimed,  with  much  entrainemetU 
*  since  you  have  perceived  my  folly,  I  confess  it ;  yes,  I  am 
your  slave."  He  spoke  in  a  very  exited  tone,  and  stood  with 
folded  arms  before  her. 

At  first  Nathalie  remained  stunned. 

"  Is  the  poor  little  man  actually  in  love  with  me  ?"  she 
thought,  with  dismay ;  but  her  fears  vanished  when  she  re* 
raembei-ed  how  eloquently  he  had  pleaded  the  cause  of  Charles 
Marceau.  The  truth  was,  that  the  too  sensitive  Chevalier  was 
in  love  with  every  woman  he  knew,  from  Mademoiselle  Dantin 
down  to  Marianne,  and  consequently  with  Nathalie,  as  well  as 
the  rest ;  her  unprotected  and  painful  position — h:g  half-ac- 
cepted offer  of  becoming  her  knight  had  fired  his  brain,  and, 
for  the  moment,  he  certainly  felt  a  most  violent  passion, 
which  he  was  not  far  from  thinking  returned.  At  the  same 
time,  he  was  somewhat  dismayed  at  the  boldness  of  his  avow- 
al. Nathalie  was  too  much  amused  to  look  angry,  and  too 
kind-hearted  to  laugh  ;  she  feigned  deafness,  and  said,  quietly  : 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  how  injurious  to  a  lady's  reputation 
any  such  eclat  would  be  ;  therefore,  my  good  knight,  I,  your 
liege  lady,  lay  on  you  my  sovereign  commands  not  to  hurt  or 
molest,  in  any  manner  whatsoever,  the  individual  named  Charles 
Marceau." 

"  May  I  not  speak  to  his  uncle  ?"  asked  the  Chevalier,  a 
little  crest-fallen,  for  he  was  not  quite  the  dupe  of  Nathalie's 
deafness. 

"  By  no  means  ;  the  uncle  has  the  name  of  a  most  disn^ 
greeable,  haughty  man — I  care  no  more  for  him  than  I  do  for 
his  nephew." 

"  But,  Mademoiselle,  something  must  be  done, — what  will 
you  do  ?" 

'•  Leave  this  house  to-night,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"  That  only  makes  the  matter  worse  ; — I  must  speak  to 
Mademoiselle  Dantin." 

"  And  what  can  you  say  to  her  that  she  does  not  know? 
If,  finding  me  alone  in  the  garden  with  a  young  man,  sho 
chooses  to  believe  I  brought  him  there,  who  shall  prevent 
her  ?" 

"  I  certainly  cannot  prevent  her,"  replied  the  dancing-mas- 
fcr,  with  something  like  dignity,  but  there  is  such  a  thing  aa 
protesting  against  an  injustice.  If  Mademoiselle  Dantin  will 
he  unjust  to  a  young  and  unprotected  lady,  I  shall  and  must 
break  with  her." 


NATHALIE.  39 

lie  spoke  very  decisively.  Nathalie  looked  at  him  with 
Bonie  emotion. 

"  Monsieur  le  Chevalier,"  said  she,  gently,  "  yoii  were  ill 
last  year."  The  Chevalier  looked  very  rueful.  "  You  have 
not  many  friends  in  Sainville,"*hc  continued  ;"  and  then  ] 
believe  you  had  but  one." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  thoughtfully,  rubbing  his  aquiline  nose, 
"  heaven  forbid  I  should  ever  forget  or  deny  a  lady's  favors. 
Mademoiselle  Dautin  certainly  showed  herself  a  kind  lady  ; 
the  medicines  she  sent  me  were  rather  bitter,  but  wonderfully 
fine,  I  have  no  doubt :  she  also  sent  me  some  very  excellent 
confitures  and  jellies  when  I  was  getting  better — these  were 
sweet." 

"  My  friend,"  kindly  said  Nathalie,  '•  you  must  not  break 
with  a  woman  who  has  done  this,  who  would  do  it  again,  and 
who,  if  she  has  a  gentle  feeling  in  her  breast,  has  it  for  you. 
Besides,  it  would  be  useless — nothing  shall  make  me  stay 
here ;  I  have  been  insulted — I  must  go  :  be  quite  easy  about 
me,  God  is  good  to  all,  and  kind  to  the  young." 

The  little  Chevalier  slapped  his  forehead  distractedly,  and 
paced  the  room  with  hasty  steps  and  agitated  air.  He  felt 
grateful  for  both  medicines  and  jellies  ;  and  the  "  gentle  feel- 
ing" of  which  Nathalie  spoke,  moved  him  strangely.  He 
could  not,  with  any  delicacy,  inquire  into  the  exact  nature  of 
Mademoiselle  Dantin's  weakness,  and,  indeed,  felt  rather 
alarmed  at  tiie  prospect  of  ascertaining  how  far  it  had  gone. 
JBut  touched  and  grateful  as  he  felt,  it  was  impossible  to  forget 
that  he  was  the  sworn  knight  of  another  lady  now  in  sore  dis- 
tress. For  a  moment  his  fertile  and  excited  imagination 
represented  him  as  standing  between  two  fair  dames, — one 
certainly  lovely,  and  the  other  intellectual — is  not  intellect 
beauty? — and  not  knowing  on  which  side  to  turn.  But  at 
length  he  took  a  truer  and  calmer  view  of  the  subject,  smoothed 
his  wig,  composed  himself,  and  magnanimously  resolved  to 
abide  where  gratitude  cast  her  chains  around  him. 

Nathalie  smiled  when  he  announced  his  resolve  with  a  rue- 
ful sigh  ;  she  bade  him  a  clieerful  adieu,  and  gayly  assured  him 
he  was  none  the  less  her  knight.  The  dancing-master  took 
her  hands  within  his  own — an  unwonted  freedom — and  looked 
at  her  silently. 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  he  said  at  length,  in  a  moved 
tone,  "  you  are  young,  pretty,  and  very  charming,  but  you  have 
something  far  better  than  all  that — a  good,  kind  heart.     Hap- 


40  NATHALIE. 

py  the  man  who  is  to  have  you,  and  may  God  bless  him  and 
you !" 

Tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  and  in  Nathalie's  too,  as  they 
parted.  She  went  up  to  her  room  with  a  light,  cheerful  heart. 
Nothing  had  occurred  to  change  her  position ;  but  her  tempei* 
had  led  her  to  yield  to  every  impression  of  the  moment,  and 
her  present  impressions  were  light  and  pleasant.  Resting  her 
curved  chin  in  the  palm  of  her  hand,  she  paced  the  room  up 
and  down  in  meditative  mood.  A  smile  was  on  her  lips,  and 
the  look  of  her  dark  eyes  was  bright  and  hopeful. 

"  I  am  glad  I  am  going,"  she  thought,  "  truly  glad.  This 
perverse  woman  would  positively  end  by  making  me  enjoy  a 
quarrel.  I  have  enjoyed  it — I  know  I  have,"  she  added,  a  lit- 
tle ruefully ;  "  but  I  dare  say  all  this  is  for  the  best :  I  could 
scarcely  have  left  her  otherwise,  but  now  I  must  go,  of  course  ; 
and  where  shall  I  go,  I  wonder  ?" 

She  stopped  short,  and  looked  grave  and  disturbed.  She 
was  a  stranger  in  Sainville ;  her  only  friend  was  her  sister, 
and  she  was  now  at  Rouen,  with  the  old  aunt  under  whose 
protection  she  resided.  The  town  inn  seemed  the  only  place 
open  to  the  young  girl.  It  was  a  quiet,  decent  house,  where 
few  travellers  ever  came,  yet  the  thought  of  going  there  was 
extremely  disagreeable  to  Nathalie ;  she  now  regretted  not 
having  agreed  to  spend  the  night  in  the  school.  But  this  was 
a  trifling  consideration  in  comparison  to  another  which  oifered 
itself  to  her  attention  under  the  following  startling  form : 
''  Mademoiselle  Dantin  will  say  I  contrived  a  meeting  with 
that  young  man  in  the  garden.  I  did  not :  but  will  the  world 
believe  her  or  me?"  She  endeavored  to  chase  the  thought 
away,  but  it  would  return,  and  with  it  the  growing  conviction 
that  her  own  version  of  the  story  would  not  be  that  most 
favorably  received.  Disgrace,  whether  it  bo  merited  or  not, 
is  hard  to  bear,  in  youth  especially.  Nathalie  was  one  of 
those  impatient  spirits  who  resent  injustice  in  word  and  feel- 
ing. She  had  never  submitted  to  Mademoiselle  Dantin's  ty- 
ranny ;  she  now  felt  indignant  and  amazed  that  a  chain  of 
circumstances,  over  which  she  seemingly  had  no  power,  should 
have  produced  results  so  galling  to  her  pride  and  so  fatal  to 
her  welfare.  She  was  young  and  handsome,  therefore  she  was 
to  be  suspected  ;  poor,  therefore  unfriended  and  alone ;  inno- 
scViC.  but  not  the  less  disgraced. 

"  Is  this  possible  ?"  she  asked  of  herself  with  incredulous 
surprise.     She  thought  of  Charles,  but  with  increased  bitter- 


KATHAIJE  4] 

ncss  and  indignation,  and  as  the  cause  of  al!  her  avoc.  Why 
Jiad  he  persecuted  her  with  attentions  so  fat?l,  which  had  tar- 
nished her  name,  and  cast  on  it  a  stain  she  would  find  it  so 
hard  to  efface?  She  found  an  insult  not  only  in  the  boldnes* 
of  his  actions,  but  also  in  the  coolness  and  composure  which 
characterized  them.  She  recalled  with  irritation  every  parti 
cular  of  this  interview.  "  He  is  not  handsome,"  she  ejaculated 
inwardly ;  "  I  looked  at  him  well,  and  it  was  not  so  dark  but 
what  I  could  see :  I  like  neither  his  face  nor  his  look  ;  one  is 
too  old  in  feeling,  and  the  other  too  keen  and  watchful  in  ex- 
pression. His  whole  conduct  was  heartless  and  cruel ;  he  shall 
find  himself  mistaken  if  he  imagines  it  has  placed  me  in  his 
power  !" 

The  mere  idea  roused  her;  she  also  remembered  it  wa.^ 
time  to  act — not  merely  to  think  of  her  departure,  but  to  pre- 
pare for  it.  Ere  long  her  drawers  were  emptied,  and  their 
contents  transferred  to  her  trunk.  She  was  cording  it  up, 
when  a  low,  timid  knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  Nathalie 
knew  it  was  Marianne,  the  servant.  She  bade  her  enter,  and, 
merely  glancing  round,  resumed  her  task. 

The  girl  obeyed,  closed  the  door  with  nervous  haste,  then 
remained  standing  near  it  without  speaking.  She  had  a  good- 
natured  face,  fresh  and  full ;  but  her  e3'es,  of  a  pale  blue,  Tad 
a  startled  and  bewildered  look,  as  if  she  were  in  a  state  of  con- 
stant alarm. 

"Well,  Marianne^  what  is  it?"  asked  Nathalie,  in  her 
quick,  cheerful  way,  rising  as  she  spoke  to  face  the  girl. 

But  Marianne,  on  perceiving  the  corded  trunk,  uttered  a 
faint  scream.     Nathalie  gave  her  a  look  of  surprise. 

"  Oh,  mademoiselle  !"  exclaimed  Marianne,  still  short  of 
breath,  "  I  have  done  it ! — You  are  going  ! — I  have  done  it  !" 

'•  You,  Marianne !"  quickly  said  Nathalie,  looking  very 
vexed.     "  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  let  that  young  man  in  ?" 

Marianne  hung  down  her  head  and  wrung  her  hands. 

"  Answer  me,"  imperatively  said  Nathalie  ;  '•  did  you  do  it 
ornot?" 

"I  thought  there  was  no  harn* "  said  Marianne,  feebly. 

"  No  harm  !" 

"  I  mean  that  you  would  not  bo  angry." 

This  did  not  mend  the  matter. 

"  And  pray  what  made  you  think  so  ?"  dryly  asked  Nathalie. 

■'I  thought 1  am  sure  I  do  not  know — but  he  was  bo 

handsoni'j." 


i'Z  MATIIALIE. 

"  He  is  not,"  was  the  sharp  reply  ;  "  but  he  is  very  insolen^ 
Marianne." 

"  Oh,  is  he  1"  said  Marianne,  looking  rather  bewildered.  "  1 
am  very  sorry,  but  I  thought  that,  being  so  rich  and  handsome 

as  I  imagined,"  she  added,  correcting  herself,  and  so  fond 

of  you  too  ■' — Nathalie's  lip  curled  disdainfully — "  I  fancied 

I  know  I  ought  not  to  have  done  it ;  but  Mademoiselle  Dantin 
always  says  I  am  so  wicked,  and  I  suppose  I  am,"  she  added, 
disconsolately. 

Nathalie's  resentment  was  as  readily  appeased  as  it  waa 
easy  to  awaken.  She  knew  Marianne  was  a  poor  weak  and 
nervous  creature,  whose  little  original  spirit  had  long  been 
broken  by  the  redoubtable  Mademoiselle  Mantin.  She  believed, 
moreover,  that  she  was  attached  to  her,  and  had  probably 
thought  to  serve  her  by  her  indiscreet  conduct.  She  now 
sought  to  console  her  by  assuring  her  of  her  forgiveness  ;  but 
on  hearing  this,  Marianne  began  to  sob  and  moan  very  drearily, 
calling  all  the  saints  of  heaven  to  witness  that  she  had  meant 
no  harm. 

"  Very  well,"  rather  abruptly  said  Nathalie,  who  was  more 
kind-hearted  than  patient;  "  come,  Marianne,  here  is  the Jichu 
I  have  cut  out  for  you ;  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  hem  it." 

u3ut  as  this  recalled  to  Marianne  the  many  similar  kind- 
nesses she  had  received  from  the  young  girl,  it  only  added  tc 
her  grief.  Nathalie  perceiving  that  she  was  getting  hysterical, 
made  her  sit  down,  and  laying  her  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder, 
kindly  looked  into  her  face,  whilst  she  said  with  some  gravity; 

"  You  have  cried  enough,  and  tears  are  of  no  earthly  use. 
You  did  wrong,  meaning  well ;  a  common  mistake.  I  have 
forgiven  you,  let  us  hear  no  more  about  it ;  indeed,  the  sooner 
you  leave  this  room  the  better.  On  reflection,  I  think  it  is 
quite  useless  your  mistress  should  know  what  has  passed.  She 
would  not  exonerate  me,  but  say  we  were  accomplices ;  only 
Marianne,  if  another  teacher  should  come  in  my  place,  do  not 
let  young  men  get  into  the  garden.  And  now,  what  was  it  you 
came  up  here  to  tell  me  ?" 

"  Holy  Virgin  !"  cried  Marianne,  much  startled,  "  I  quite 
forget  it !     The  sight  of  that  trunk — " 

"  What  was  it  ?" 

"  A  message  from  Mademoiselle  Dantin." 

"  She  might  have  spared  herself  that  trouble,"  quickly  ex- 
claimed Nathalie,  coloring  very  much,  as  she  spoke  ;  "  I  have 
Qo  wish  to  stay,  T  am  quite  ready  to  go ;  Marianne,  you  may 


NATHALIE.  43 

toll  her  so,"  she  added,  putting  on  her  shawl  and  tying  her 
bonnet-strings. 

"  Oh  !  mon  Dieu,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Marianne,  "  it  was 
not  that  at  all, — but  you  are  so  quick !  just  like  a  milksoup,^ — 
up  directly." 

'•  Well,  what  was  it  then?" 

"  Why  I  believe  it  is  a  strange  lady  below  who  wishes  to 
Gpeak  to  you." 

"  A  lady  !"  said  Nathalie,  looking  up  with  much  surprise  ; 
"  and  wlio  is  she,  Marianne  ?" 

Marianne  did  not  know.  The  lady's  face  was  turned  from 
her  when  slie  answered  her  mistres&''3  ring,  and  it  was  not  she 
who  had  let  her  in.  Nathalie  felt  puzzled  to  imagine  who  tho 
stranger  might  be,  for  she  was  acquainted  with  no  one  in  Sain- 
ville  ;  but  without  losing  much  time  in  conjecturing  or  accept- 
ing Marianne's  offer  of  knowing  from  the  other  servant,  she  re- 
solved to  go  down  and  learn. 

She  paused  for  a  moment  on  reaching  the  door  of  the  par- 
lor ;  it  stood  ajar,  and  a  ray  of  liglit  glided  from  the  opening 
into  the  dark  corridor.  She  had  thought  to  hear  the  stranger's 
voice,  and  thus  learn  who  she  was,  but  if  the  room  had  been 
vacant  it  could  not  have  been  more  silent.  With  an  indefinite 
feeling  between  hope  and  uneasiness,  Nathalie  pushed  the  door 
open  and  entered. 

Mademoiselle  Dantin  was  seated,  as  when  we  first  saw  her, 
before  the  table  which  had  been  Natlialie's  bar  of  judgment. 
She  looked  discomposed :  and  an  angry  spot  sat  on  either  of 
her  sallow  cheeks,  as  she  fanned  herself  indignantly  with  a 
coarse  colored  pocket-handkerchief  At  a  little  distance  from 
her,  with  her  back  to  the  door,  stood  a  lady,  who  quickly  turned 
round  on  hearing  Nathalie  enter. 

She  was  tall,  erect,  and  very  richly  attired  ;  she  looked  be- 
tween forty  and  fifty  ;  she  might  have  appeared,  and  she  per- 
haps was,  younger,  but  for  the  careworn  expression  of  her 
countenance.  Her  features  were  more  regular  than  pleasing  ; 
Ihe  brow  was  too  low,  and  tlic  upper  lip  had  a  haughty  curl,  yet 
the  whole  face  was  far  from  repulsive ;  many  would  have  pro- 
uounced  it  handsome. 

Natlialie  looked  at  lior  and  vaguely  felt  that  she  had  seen 
her  before,  but  where  or  liow,  she  could  not  remember. 

"  Tlie  young  lady,  I  presume,"  said  the  stranger,  giving 
Nathalie  a  keen  look,  and  addressing  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  in 
a  rich   harmonious  voice  that  seemed  familiar  to  the  young 


44  j^ATHALIE. 

girl's  car.  The  schoolmistress  gave  a  short  disdainful  nod 
as  the  lady  turned  once  more  towards  Nathalie  and  ol> 
served,  with  an  inclination  of  the  head,  between  pride  and 
courtesy : 

"  I  am  come.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  to  express  my  great 
regret  for  the  indiscretion  of  which  my  son  rendered  himself 
guilty  towards  you  this  evening. — I  regret  it  exceedingly/'  she 
added,  slightly  drawing  herself  up. 

Nathalie  bowed  silently.  She  now  recognized  the  speaker 
as  their  neighbor  Madame  Marceau.     The  lady  continued  : 

"  I  am  really  distressed  that  a  son  of  our  house — that  my 
son — should  have  acted  so.  I  understand  too  there  is  a  ser- 
vant in  the  case  ; — it  is  positively  shocking." 

She  raised  a  richly-chased  vinaigrette  to  her  nose,  as  li  ty 
purify  the  very  idea. 

"Shocking!"  exclaimed  Madcmois'elle  Dantin,  ircfully ;  '•' it 
is  more,  madame,  I  " — drawing  herself  up — "  I  call  it  abomina- 
ble !  To  bribe  my  servant ; — but  I  shall  teach  the  bold  crea- 
ture her  place  yet,"  she  added,  rising  to  give  the  bell-rope  a 
violent  pull. 

"  Not  now,  madame, — not  now,"  said  Madame  Marceau 
waving  her  right  hand  with  a  haughty  grace,  that  did  not  mis 
become  her,  whilst  her  left  maintained  the  vinaigrette  in  its 
position  ; — "  not  now,  I  pray.  I  have  no  doubt,  from  what  my 
son  has  told  me,  the  girl  is  guilty ;  I  should  certainly  dismiss 
her.  At  the  same  time,  I  am  sure  your  ready  tact  will  suggest 
to  you  the  impropriety  of  any  such  explanation  at  present. 
You  may  go,"  she  added,  directing  a  stately  nod  towards  Ma- 
rianne, who  had  appeared  at  the  door  with  her  usual  bewil- 
dered air ;  "  your  mistress  does  not  want  you  yet.  Go.  my 
good  girl,— go." 

Mademoiselle  Dantin  was  no  submissive  person,  yet  some- 
how or  other  she  now  resumed  her  seat,  and  allowed  Marianne 
to  depart  in  silence.  Madame  Marceau  bore  her  down  com- 
pletely. It  was  not  the  lady's  wealth  or  station  effected  this 
wonder,  for  the  schoolmistress,  to  do  her  justice,  never  stooped 
save  where  there  was  some  advantage  to  be  derived,  and  in  the 
present  case  there  was  none ;  but  though  she  could  not  exactly 
understand  why,  she  now  felt  entirely  ttirown  into  the  shade. 
Madame  Marceau's  stately  person  and  grand  ways,  her  figure, 
full  yet  graceful — her  dress  of  rich  silk  and  ample  folds, — her 
Indian  shawl,  negligently  draped  around  her,  as  if  it  were  a 
thing  of  no  price, — ay,  even  her  bonnet,  with  the  waving  plums 


NATHALIE.  45 

tliat  rose  and  fell  with  every  motion  of  the  wearer's  head, 
failed  not  in  their  effect,  and  hushed  the  wrath  of  the  school- 
mistress.  Being,  however,  a  woman  of  very  great  spirit,  she 
soon  rallied,  and  was  preparing  for  an  outbreak  of  which  the 
exordium  would  have  been  relative  to  the  propriety  of  some 
people  giving  orders  to  their  own  servants,  and  other  people 
not  going  to  be  trodden  upon,  when  Madame  Marceau,  per- 
ceiving her  intention,  intei'fered. 

'•  By-and-by,  my  good  Mademoiselle  Dantin,"  said  slie, 
with  a  patronizing  smile,  '•  by-and-by ;  allow  me  first  to  ex- 
plain the  case  to  this  young  lady.  I  am  distressed,  extremely 
so  indeed,"  she  continued,  addressing  her  discourse  to  Natha- 
lie ;  "  I  positively  am,  at  all  that  has  happened.  I  have  been 
explaining  the  whole  matter  to  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  who  now 
understands  her  mistake," — the  schoolmistress  was  preparing 
for  an.  indignant  denial,  but  was  not  permitted  to  open  her 
lips, — "  by-and-by,  when  I  have  explained  every  thing  to  Ma- 
demoiselle Montolicu.  At  the  same  time,"  resumed  Madame 
Marceau,  again  addressing  Nathalie,  '■  I  have  no  difficulty  in 
understanding  that  for  many  reasons  you  may  object  to  re- 
main even  one  day  longer  beneath  her  roof  Will  you  accept 
of  the  hospitality  which,  when  I  had  confided  to  him  what  my 
son  had  confided  to  me,  my  brother  begged  of  me  to  offer  you? 
But  pray,"  she  added,  very  graciously,  "  receive  this  proposal 
in  the  same  spirit  in  which  it  is  made, — as  a  favor  to  be  con- 
ferred upon  us.  We  really  shall  not  be  easy  unless  you  afford 
us  this  opportunity  of  repairing  my  son's  deplorable  indiscre- 
tion. Nathalie  made  no  reply;  she  evidently  hesitated.  JNIa- 
dame  Marceau  gave  an  anxious  look.  "  I  hope,''  said  she, 
somewhat  uneasily,  "  the  offer  is  not  displeasing.  I  am  sure  I 
bhould  be  quite  grieved What  is  it,  madame  ?" 

The  latter  words  came  out  very  sharply,  and  were  ad- 
dressed to  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  who,  on  hearing  Madame 
Marccau's  altered  tone  and  language,  had  thought  proper  to 
recline  back  in  her  chair,  close  her  eyes,  and  give  utterance  to 
a  disdainful  "  Bah  !" 

''What  is  it,  madame?"  again  asked  Madame  Marccaii, 
drawing  up  her  fine  figure,  and  wrapping  hei-self  with  ex- 
treme majesty. 

"  Nothing,  madame,"  shortly  replied  the  schoolmistress. 

Madame  Marceau  eyed  her  very  slowly,  then  turned  once 
more  towards  Nathalie,  evidently  waiting  for  her  reply. 

The  young  girls  resolve  was  already  taken.     She   did    not 


4*5  1%'ATHALiL. 

think  that  between  tlic  Inn  or  the  chateau  of  Sainville  there 
was  much  cause  to  hesitate;  she  could,  moreover,  detect  a 
great  difi'erence  in  the  tone  with  which  Madame  Marceau  ad- 
dressed her,  from  that  in  which  she  spoke  to  Mademoiselle 
Dantin ;  the  distinction  gratified  her  wounded  pride.  But 
composed  as  she  endeavored  to  seem,  there  was  a  feeling  she 
could  not  help  betraying,  and  this  feeling  was  surprise.  She 
knew  that  the  step  Madame  Marceau  now  took  was  the  ver^ 
last  any  of  the  bourgeoise  ladies  of  Sainville  wouid  have  adopted 
in  similar  circumstances.  Madame  Marceau,  who  was  looking 
av  her  very  attentively,  smiled  with  a  sort  of  quiet  triumph,  that 
seemed  to  say:  "Yes,  my  dear  child,  it  is  so;  no  Y\ti\e  parve- 
mie  would  act  thus  ;  but  I  am  a  great  lady  of  that  old  noblesse 
which  has  courtesy  and  chivalry  of  feeling  still.  Our  titles 
are  nothing ;  our  wealth  is  gone,  but  that  remains  to  distin- 
guish us  for  ever  from  those  of  plebeian  blood  and  race." 

It  was  thus  at  least  that  Nathalie  rapidly  interpreted  the 
meaning  of  the  dark  and  handsome,  though  haughty  face,  on 
which  she  now  gazed  ;  but  she  subdued  her  momentary  sur- 
prise and  replied,  with  a  gravity  and  composure  unusual  to 
her: 

"  Madame,  I  sincerely  thank  you  for  your  offer.  I  will  not 
say  that  I  accept  it,  because  the  circumstances  you  allude  to 
with  so  much  regret  leave  me  no  other  choice ;  my  motives 
are,  I  trust,  of  a  higher  order.  The  insinuations  which  Made- 
moiselle Dantin  has  thrown  out  against  me  would,  I  confess  it, 
seem  to  be  justified  by  my  abrupt  departure  from  her  estab- 
lishment, where,  nevertheless,  I  have  no  wish  to  remain — no, 
not  one  hour  longer,"  she  added,  giving  the  schoolmistress  a 
reproachful  glance  ;  "  but  if  I  leave  her  house  for  yours,"  she 
continuf^d,  again  addressing  Madame  Marceau,  "  her  protection 
for  your  protection,  I  believe  that  my  bitterest  enemies,  if  1 
have  indeed  any,  must  needs  bo  silent ;  these,  and  these  only, 
are  my  motives." 

She  spoke  with  quiet  pride,  almost  coldly,  for  she  was  jeal- 
ous of  not  compromising  her  dignity. 

"  Whatever  they  may  be,"  very  graciously  replied  Madame 
Marceau,  "  I  am  too  happy  at  the  result,  not  to  think  them 
excellent  ;  and  I  feel  sure  Mademoiselle  Dantin  shares  my 
gratification  at  so  agreeable  a  conclusion  of  an  unpleasant  mat- 
ter." 

Madame  !"  replied  the  schoolmistress,  darting  an  angry  look 
towards  her,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  that  quivered  with  anger 


NATHALIE.  47 

"  I  might  say  much,  but  will  confine  myself  to  one  remark  . 
for  no  consideration  would  I  suffer  under  my  roof,  as  you  soera 
inclined  to  suffer  under  yours,  such  things " 

'•  What  things  ?"  asked  Madame  Marceau. 

"  Such  things  as  a  modest  woman  does  not  care  to  mention.'' 

Madame  Marceau  carried  her  vinaigrette  to  her  nose  with 
extreme  dignity. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Mademoiselle  Dantin,"  said  she,  quietly, 
"  you  astonish  me.  What  ideas  !  for  an  instructress  of  youth 
too  ;  you  do  astonish  me.  I  believe  you  are  ready.  Mademoi- 
selle Montolieu,"  she  added,  addressing  Nathalie.  '•  Will  you 
be  kind  enough  to  take  my  arm  ?  A  servant  shall  come  round 
for  your  trunks  this  evening." 

Nathalie  silently  obeyed,  but  felt  somewhat  mortified  on  re- 
collecting that  she  was  leaving  only  one  trunk  behind  ^er. 
They  had  reached  the  door,  when  Madame  Marceau  turned 
round,  and  coldly  observed  : 

"  Good  evening,  Mademoiselle  Dantin.  I  think  it  right  to 
observe  to  you,  that  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  being  now  under 
my  protection,  I  shall  consider  any  remark  derogatory  to  her 
as  a  personal  insult  to  me." 

She  drew  herself  up,  and  turned  away.  Nathalie  followed 
her  example,  but  not  without  first  casting  a  look  oyer  the  gloomy 
room,  with  the  globes,  the  maps,  the  cheerless  hearth,  the  com- 
fortless furniture,  the  ungracious  and  withered  figure  of  the 
schoolmistress,  as  she  sat  rigidly  in  her  chair,  and  feeling,  with 
a  sense  of  inexpressible  relief,  that  she  was  leaving  them  all 
for  ever. 

A  new  page  in  the  history  of  her  life  was  indeed  turned 
over. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  chateau  of  Sainville  stood  on  the  brow  of  an  eminence 
which  overlooked  tlie  quiet  town  of  Sainville.  gathered  up  be- 
low within  the  shallow  compass  of  a  little  Norman  valley. 

A  broad  road,  shaded  by  trees  on  either  side,  wound  its  wav 
up  the  steep  ascent,  passed  before  the  narrow  door  of  the 
Bchool-house  and  the  iron  gateway  of  the  mansion,  then  ab- 
ruptly descended  the  other  .side  of  the  eminence,  and  extended 


48  NATHALIE. 

far  away  into  the  open  country,  among  yellow  stubble-fields 
and  green  meadows,  with  here  and  there  a  solitary  dwelling. 
Of  this  prospect,  which  looked  gay  and  pastoral  in  the  sun- 
shine, nothing  was  visible  on  the  present  evening ;  the  moon 
was  obscured  by  light  clouds  that  slowly  passed  over  her  disk, 
following  one  another  along  the  gloomy  sky,  like  ships  sailing 
in  the  same  track,  until  they  vanished  in  the  distant  depths  of 
heaven ;  a  chill  breeze  had  risen,  and  its  vague  murmurs 
blended  with  the  rustling  sound  of  the  withered  leaves  which 
it  swept  away  from  the  lonely  road. 

On  leaving  the  school-house,  the  two  ladies  turned  away 
from  the  lingering  household  lights  which  still  burned  in  the 
vale  at  their  feet,  and  walked  along  in  silence  until  they  reached 
an  avenue  of  old  and  majestic  elms  on  their  left.  At  the  end 
of  that  avenue  rose  the  old  chateau.  The  iron  gate  stood 
open  ;  they  entered,  walked  to  the  end  and  ascended  a  flight 
of  steps  that  led  to  the  porch.  Their  approach  seemed  to  have 
been  witnessed  and  expected,  for  the  door  noiselessly  opened 
to  admit  them.  Nathalie  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  tall  servant 
in  black,  standing  in  a  respectful  attitude  in  the  spacious  and 
lighted  hall,  a  wide  and  majestic  flight  of  marble  steps  with 
railings  of  rich  iron  filagree  extended  beyond.     They  entered. 

"  Where  is  my  son  ?"  asked  Madame  Marceau. 

'•  Monsieur  Charles  left  very  shortly  after  madame." 

"  Has  she  asked  this  that  I  may  know  he  is  gone?"  quick- 
ly the  ught  Nathalie.  She  glanced  around  ;  the  air  of  grandeur 
which  pervaded  all  she  saw,  the  obsequious  tone  and  downcast 
eyes  of  the  servant,  the  stately  dignity  of  Madame  Marceau 
as  she  crossed  the  hall  with  her  haughty  mien  and  her  rust- 
ling robe,  showed  her  how  difi"erent  was  the  atmosphere  she 
was  entering  from  that  of  the  world  she  had  left.  She  was  not 
awed,  but  could  scarcely  help  feeling  impressed.  They  as- 
cended the  staircase  in  silence.  Madame  Marceau  paused  on 
reaching  the  first  floor  landing.  In  a  recess  stood  the  dark 
bronze  statue  of  a  female  slave  bearing  a  pale,  transparent 
lamp,  which  shed  around  a  soft  and  subdued  light.  The  elder 
lady  turned  towards  her  companion,  and  laying  her  hand  on 
the  gilt  door-handle  of  a  wide  folding-door,  she  observed,  in  her 
rich,  full  voice,  looking  down  at  Nathalie  as  she  spoke,  •'  I 
must  beg  leave  to  introduce  you  to  my  aunt  the  Canoness  ; 
she  is  very  old,  a  little  infirm,  and  rather  deaf  I  feel  confi- 
dent she  will  be  charmed  to  know  you.  Pray  do  not  feel  un- 
easy ;  she  is  a  very  simple  person — extremely  so.     Perhaps  we 


NATHALIE.  49 

sLall  also  see  my  brother,  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ;  but  pray  bo 
quite  at  your  ease.'' 

She  spoken  so  graciously  that  Nathalie  felt  vexed  at  the 
trepidation  which  drew  forth  so  much  condescension.  Daring 
as  she  was  when  roused  by  injustice,  the  young  girl  was  never- 
theless shy  with  strangers  ;  she  now  felt  doubly  so.  What  would 
the  old  Canoness,  probably  a  rigid  old  devotee,  think  of  her  ? 
How  could  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  that  grave  and,  if  report 
spoke  truly,  morose  man,  consider  the  obscure  girl  who  had 
attracted  his  nephew's  attention  1  Yet  with  this  feeling  of  un- 
easiness there  blended  a  strong  share  of  curiosity  to  obtain  a 
nearer  view  of  one  who,  whether  in  good  or  ill,  had  excited 
much  attention  since  his  return  to  Sainville. 

Madame  Marceau,  who  was  eyeing  Nathalie  keenly,  ap- 
peared far  from  annoj^ed  at  what  she  could  read  of  those  feel- 
ings in  the  young  girl's  veiled  countenance.  Complacently 
patting  the  hand  which  rested  on  her  arm,  she  once  more 
exhorted  her  to  banish  all  uneasiness,  and  opening  the  door, 
she  led  the  way  into  a  large,  old-fashioned  drawing-room,  with 
a  lofty  ceiling  and  deep  windows,  now  screened  by  thick  crim- 
son curtains  that  fell  to  the  ground.  Several  large  mirrors 
gave  additional  vastncss  to  the  apartment,  and  reflected  in 
their  shadowy  depths  the  light  of  a  lamp  suspended  from  the 
ceiling.  In  contrast  to  its  soft,  pale  rays,  was  the  ardent  glow 
of  the  wood-fire  that  burned  on  the  hearth,  and  shone  back 
with  a  deeper  and  more  burning  red  from  the  polished  surface 
of  the  surrounding  furniture.  The  walls  were  hung  with  pic- 
tures in  heavy  gilt  frames  ;  they  were  chiefly  old  family  por- 
traits, and  had  all  the  mellow  tones  of  age.  There  was  warmth 
and  richness  in  the  coloring  of  the  whole  room. 

Nathalie  at  first  shrank  behind  Madame  Marceau  and 
scarcely  raised  her  eyes  from  the  floor.  She  felt  as  if 
Monsieur  de  Sainville's  keen  look,  of  which  she  had  often 
heard,  were  fastened  upon  her  ;  when  she  at  length  looked  up, 
blushing  and  slightly  confused,  she  perceived  at  the  further 
end  of  the  apartment  a  very  diminutive  old  lady,  seated  in  a 
deep  arm-chair,  by  the  fire-side,  and  knitting  with  extreme 
rapidity.  She  did  not  pause  in  her  occupation  or  take  any 
notice  of  their  entrance.  With  mingled  relief  and  disappoint- 
ment, Nathalie  perceived  that  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  not 
there.  Madame  Marceau,  still  keeping  the  young  girl's  arm 
within  her  own,  and  nodding  in  her  encouraging  manner,  led 
her  along  the  room  at  a  slow  and  stately  pace.     As  they  ad' 


50  NATHALIE. 

vanced  towards  the  tire-place,  the  large  mirroi'  over  it  reflected 
her  fine  figure,  rich  attire,  and  waving  plumes ;  on  the  vpholfi 
she  looked  very  majestic.  They  paused  on  reaching  the  old 
lady's  arm-chair,  and  gently  touching  the  arm  of  her  relative. 
Madame  Marceau  said  in  a  key  higher  than  her  usual  tones  : 

"  Aunt, — dear  Aunt  Radegonde." 

The  Canoness  slowly  raised  her  head.  Nathalie  was  capti- 
vated at  once  by  the  look  of  her  mild  blue  eyes,  still  deep  in 
color,  and  by  the  kind  and  benignant  smile  which  played  on 
her  features  as  she  beheld  them.  A  devotee  she  might  be,  but 
she  certainly  did  not  seem  a  rigid  one.  Her  hair,  of  a  silvery 
white,  was  parted  and  smoothed  beneath  a  close  lace  cap  ;  she 
wore  a  dress  of  black  silk  brocade,  very  full  and  autique  in 
fashion,  but  fitting  her  extremely  well.  On  her  bosom  glit- 
tered a  large  gold  cross,  the  sign  of  the  gay  and  worldly  order 
to  which  she  belonged.  She  was  evidently  very  old,  but  her 
neat  and  slender  little  figure  had  not  suffered  from  years,  or 
lost  the  nicety  of  its  proportions  ;  she  sat  and  knitted  in  a 
very  erect  fashion.  Nathalie  thought  she  had  never  beheld  a 
being  who  realized  so  completely  her  childish  beau  ideal  of  the 
benevolent  fairy. 

"  I  have  brought  vou  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  said  Ma- 
dame  Marceau,  again  addressing  her  aunt. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  her,"  cheerfully  replied  the  Canon- 
ess  ;  "  the  poor  child  looks  hot ;  well,  it  is  perhaps  early  to 
have  a  fire  ;  for  my  part  I  think  the  heat  a  good  thing  at  all 
times  ;  besides,  I  am  subject  to  rheumatism,  and  this  old  draw- 
ing-room is  so  cold  and  chill  of  an  evening.  Pray  take  off 
your  bonnet  and  shawl,  my  dear,  and  sit  here  by  me." 

There  was  in  her  manner  a  kindness  free  from  Madame 
Marceau's  patronizing  courtesy  as  she  now  took  Nathalie's 
hand,  and  with  a  smile  made  her  sit  down  on  a  low  luxurious 
seat  by  her  side,  eyeing  her  all  the  time  with  evident  and 
naive  curiosity.  Not  satisfied  with  the  imperfect  glimpse 
which  she  thus  obtained,  she  rose,  and  declaring  that  '•  the 
poor  child  was  still  too  warm,"  she  very  decisively  divested 
Nathalie  of  both  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  remained  silent  and 
wondering  before  her.  Nathalie  was  always  pretty,  but  now 
the  warm  fire-light  gave  so  deep  a  bloom  to  her  cheek,  to  her 
eyes  a  light  so  soft,  and  to  the  clear  outlines  of  her  whole 
eountenance  so  vivid  and  dazzling  a  brightness,  heightened  by 
her  dark  hair  and  sombre  attire,  that  Aunt  Radegonde  could 
not  but  look  at  her  with  a  mute  surprise,  which  soon  subsided 


NATHALIE.  51 

into  the  smillug  complacency  the  sight  of  youth  and  beauty  in- 
spires in  those  whoin  old  age  has  mellowed,  not  soured.  The 
language  of  her  admiring  glance  was  one  beauty  learns  to  read 
early,  and  a  smile,  half-shy,  half-pleased,  trembled  on  Natha- 
lie's parted  lips.  The  Canoness  turned  towards  her  niece,  and. 
raising  herself  on  tiptoe  to  reach  her  ear,  she  mysteriously 
whispered,  with  a  shrewd  nod  in  the  direction  of  Nathalie : 

"  She  is  very  pretty." 

The  young  girl  colored  deeply  and  stooped  as  if  to  arrange 
her  hair.  Madame  Marceau  did  not  reply.  She  too  looked  at 
Nathalie  with  a  surprise  verging  on  admiration,  but  far  from 
implying  pleasure. 

'•  I  cannot  blame  poor  Charles  so  much,"  continued  the  Ca- 
noness, in  the  same  audible  key  which  she  mistook  for  the 
lowest  whisper. 

"  Hush,  aunt,"  said  her  niece,  with  imperious  tone  and  dark- 
ening brow. 

"■  We  shall  see  whether  our  critical  Armand  will  find  fault 
■with  that  face,"  added  the  indiscreet  Canoness,  with  visible 
triumph. 

Nathalie  looked  very  much  disconcerted.  ♦Armand  was  the 
christian  name  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville.  Madame  Marceau 
pressed  the  arm  of  her  aunt,  and  ."^lightly  apologized  to  the 
young  girl,  reminding  her  that  her  relative  was,  as  she  had  in- 
formed her,  a  little  deaf  She  spoke  with  a  significant  look, 
and  in  a  loud  key. 

'•Deaf!"  echoed  Aunt  Radegonde,  much  nettled.  "Indeed 
I  hear  as  well  as  most  people  ;  every  one  is  more  or  less  deaf: 
the  only  difiercncc  is  in  the  quantity.  Then  as  to  what  I  said, 
I  do  not  think  it  was  so  oft'ensive  that  you  need  have  pinched 
my  arm,  llosalie.  In  my  time,  young  girls  liked  to  be  thought 
pretty,  and  when  they  were  prettj^,  young  n»eu  were  very  apt 
to  find  it  out  too." 

With  a  haughty  nod,  that  implied  '•  take  that,"  to  her 
niece,  the  Canoness  walked  back  to  her  arra-diair,  stiffly  sat 
down,  and  rapidly  knitted  away,  ei*eet  and  dignified.  Madame 
Marceau's  lip  curled  as  she  looked  down  at  her  aunt  for  a  mo- 
ment; but  her  glance  soon  reverted  to  Nathalie,  whom  she 
keenly  eyed  from  head  to  foot,  without  seeming  to  notice  that 
the  young  girl  returned  her  scrutinizing  look.  The  lady  stood 
facing  her,  near  the  fire-jilacc,  bareheaded,  but  with  the  Indian 
shawl  that  seemed  as  a  portion  of  her  dignit}!-,  still  negligently 
iraped  around  her  person.     Nathalie  was  struck  with  th.n  rn 


52  NATHALIE. 

seuiblance  her  handsome  features  bore  to  those  of  her  son  ;  but 
the  same  sharpness  of  outline  and  careworn  expression  marred 
their  beauty.  The  look  which  she  now  cast  on  the  young  girl 
was  fixed  and  moody,  but  when  their  eyes  suddenly  chanced  to 
meet,  she  smilded  very  blandly. 

"  Aunt,"  said  she,  addressing  her  relative  in  a  most  gra- 
cious tone  ;  "  would  you  believe  that  this  terrible  old  school- 
mistress would  scarcely  let  me  see  mademoiselle  !" 

"  Indeed  !"  exclaimed  Aunt  Radegonde,  forgetting  her  re- 
sentment. She  quickly  looked  round  at  Nathalie,  suspended 
her  knitting,  cast  her  head  up  sideways,  in  an  interrogative 
listening  sort  of  fashion,  probably  rendered  imperative  and 
habitual  by  her  infirmity  and  short  stature,  and  thus  displayed 
the  profile  of  a  little  Gallic  nez  retrousse^  strongly  indicative 
of  inquisitiveness. 

"  Mademoiselle  Dantin  was  irritable  this  evening,"  quietly 
said  Nathalie,  feeling  a  reply  was  expected. 

'•  Is  she  often  so  V  promptly  asked  the  Canoness. 

'•  Yes,  pretty  often,"  answered  Nathalie  smiling. 

"Then  you  did  not  like  her?" 

'•'•  We  did  vtcii  agree : — our  tempers  were  different."  She 
spoke  coldly ;  she  did  not  love  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  but  she 
scorned  to  attack  her. 

'•  Ah  !"  slowly  said  Aunt  Radegonde,  who  seemed  to  expect 
more.  "  Indeed  !"  she  ejaculated,  after  a  pause  ;  but  as  this 
produced  nothing,  she  quietly  resumed  her  knitting. 

'•  There  is  much  to  try  tlie  temper  of  persons  in  Mademoi- 
selle Dantin's  dependent  position,"  charitably  observed  Madame 
Marceau.  "  She  is,  I  suppose,  neither  better  nor  worse  than 
most  individuals  of  her  class.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  let  mo 
hope  that  you  will  have  some  refreshment." 

Without  waiting  for  objection  or  reply,  she  rang  the  bell. 
Almost  immediately  a  servant  entered,  bearing  a  tray  covered 
with  delicacies.  Madame  Marceau  carelessly  signed  him  to 
place  it  on  a  small  table  near  Nathalie.  As  soon  as  he  retii-ed, 
she  politely  pressed  her  guest  to  take  something;  when  the 
young  girl  complied,  to  please  her,  she  retired  to  a  low  settee, 
where  she  reclined  majestically,  supported  by  a  pile  of  cushions, 
not  exactly  looking  at  Nathalie,  but  keeping  her  within  view. 
But  inexperienced  as  she  was,  Nathalie  had  the  finesse  of  a 
southern  and  a  woman.  She  felt  that  she  had  been  introduced 
into  that  stately  drawing-room,  with  emblazoned  ceiling,  and 
antique  furniture,  gleaming  in  the  red  fire-light,  in  order  to  be 


NATHALIE.  ba 

dazzled  by  the  sight  of  unaccustomed  magniflcencc.     She  had 
been  a  little  disconcerted  at  first ;  now  she  felt  quite  composed. 

•How  sorry  I  am,"  observed  Madame  Marceau,  casting  a 
gracious  look  towards  her  guest,  "  that  my  brother.  Monsieur 
de  Sainville,  does  not  spend  this  evening  with  us.  He  would 
I  am  sure  have  been  charmed  to  see  Mademoiselle  Montolieu. 
Besides,"  she  thoughtfully  added,  "  when  one  is  so  happy  as  to 
have  a  brother,  and  every  one  is  not  so  fortunate " 

"  Have  you  got  a  brother,  my  dear  V  interrupted  her  aunt, 
addressing  "Nathalie  with  her  interrogative  air. 

"  No,  madanie  ;  I  have  only  a  sister." 

'•Does  she  live  in  Sainville?"    asked  the  Canoness. 

"Generally  she  does:  but  now  Rose  is  at  Roueii,  for  a 
week." 

'•  Rose  !  what  a  pretty  name  !  May  I  ask  to  know  yours  , 
there  is  much  meaning  in  names ;  mine  is  Radegonde,  from 
Sainte  Radegonde,  one  of  our  earliest  queens.  Yours  is — 
Nathalie  !  Ah  !"  And  the  Canoness  became  suddenly  medita- 
tive. 

"  Nathalie  !"  carelessly  observed  Madame  Marceau,  who  had 
however  been  listening  with  evident  attention  ;  '•  Nathalie ! 
Did  we  not  know  a  lady  of  that  name  at  Marseilles,  aunt?" 

"  Marseilles  !"  echoed  Aunt  Radegonde,  '•  why,  are  you  from 
the  south,  my  dear  V  she  suddenly  asked,  as  if  the  idea  had 
not  occurred  to  her  before. 

"  I  am  a  Provencal." 

"  I  might  have  known  it,  by  your  quick,  piquant  way  of 
speaking,  so  unlike  our  long  nasal  Norman  accent ;  you  have 
got  a  touch  of  the  southern  tongue,  and  very  pleasant  it  is 
too,"  she  added,  smiling. 

"  Nathalie  Montolieu  !"  abstractedly  observed  her  niece  ; 
"  yes,  the  name  is  decidedly  southern." 

"  Montolieu  !  is  that  your  other  name,  my  dear  ?  why  Ro- 
salie, how  can  you  call  tlat  a  southern  name?  I  am  sure, 
now  you  mention  it,  that  it  is  a  Sainville  name  ;  have  you  for- 
gotten the  Doeteur  Montolieu,  who  attended  on  my  poor  Lu- 
cile,  and  who,  when  3'ou  became  a  widow,  wished  so  much  to 

marry  you  ?" 

Madame  Marceau  gave  her  aunt  a  rapid  and  indignant 
look,  while  Nathalie  quietly  observed  . 

"  That  Doeteur  Montolieu  was  my  father  ;  he  left  Sainville 
after  the  death  of  his  first  wife,  and  went  to  Aries,  where  he 
married  my  mother." 


54  NATHALIE. 

Madame  Marccau  looked  thunderstruck  at  the  unoxpectod 
revelation,  which  so  suddenly  lessened  the  distance  between 
herself  and  the  daughter  of  the  man  who  had  formerly  aspired 
to  the  honor  of  her  hand.  She  had  been  many  years  away 
fi'ora  Sainville,  and  did  not  so  much  as  know  of  the  doctor's 
second  marriage.  Mademoiselle  Dantin  bad  dryly  informed 
her,  that  Nathalie  was  a  Provencal,  and  pretended  to  know 
no  more  ;  this  fact,  confirmed  by  the  young  girl's  southern 
accent,  had  completely  misled  her.  Curious,  however,  to 
know  who  her  guest  really  was,  she  had,  accordingly  to  her 
usual  tactics,  when  there  was  a  secret  in  the  way,  put  her  aunt 
on  the  track  ;  the  result  had  far  surpassed  her  wishes  and 
expectations.  Indeed  there  was  now  something  pitiable  in 
her  consternation  ;  in  the  nervous  tremor  with  which  she  used 
her  vinaigrette,  and  in  the  hurried  affectation  of  pleasantry 
with  which  she  treated  her  aunt's  assertion,  and  strove  to 
check  the  torrent  of  her  voluble  astonishment  at  this  coinci- 
dence. 

"  Yes,  I  remember  Docteur  Montolieu  ;  a  good  honest  man, 
as   you  say,  aunt — very  strange  coincidence — extremely  so 
Mademoiselle   Montolieu,  I  can  see  you  are  oppressed  with 
fatigue ;  allow  me  to  show  you  to  your  room." 

Nathalie  rose,  but  the  Canoness  would  kiss  her  very  affec- 
tionately before  she  went,  and  holding  her  hand,  ask  her  how 
long  her  father  had  been  dead  ;  tell  her  what  a  very  clever 
man  he  was ;  how  he  had  attended  her  during  a  long  illness, 
and  hint  mysteriously  that  if  Rosalie  j^d  only  wished,  she 
might  now  have  been  her — Nathalie's — mamma ;  to  all  of 
which  her  haughty  niece  was  compelled  to  listen  with  power- 
less indignation,  until  at  length,  unable  to  bear  more,  she  hur- 
ried the  young  girl  out  of  the  apartment.  She  smoothed  her 
brow,  and  resumed  all  her  composure,  as  the  drawing-room 
door  closed  upon  them,  and  drowned  the  sounds  of  Aunt  Rad- 
cgonde's  voice. 

Graciously  requesting  Nathalie  to  follow  her,  she  led  the 
way  up  another  flight  of  the  wide  staircase.  The  shadowj 
height  of  the  ceilings,  the  statues  and  objects  of  art  which 
adorned  every  recess,  and  the  breadth  of  the  stairs,  impressed 
Nathalie  with  a  certain  grandeur  of  design  which  belongs  to 
old  mansions.  On  reaching  the  second-floor  landing,  lit  liko 
the  first,  they  turned  into  a  long  and  narrow  passage  or  galle- 
ry, as  the  lady  called  it,  with  doors  on  either  side.  These,  as 
Madame  Marceau  informed  the  young  girl,  in  an  impressive 


NATHALIE.  55 

tone, — these  were  the  doors  of  the  sleeping  apartmenta  of  the 
chateau  ;  they  had  been  inhabited  in  turn  by  the  whole  of  the 
family  since  the  edifice  was  first  erected. 

"And  this  is  your  room,  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  she 
added,  opening  the  last  door,  and  entering  a  small  octagon 
room,  hung  with  blue  damask,  somewhat  faded,  and  lit  by  a 
crystal  lamp  suspended  from  the  low  ceiling.  "  We  are  now 
in  one  of  the  four  turrets  of  the  chateau,"  she  continued,  nod- 
ding and  smiling  at  the  young  girl.  Her  look,  tone,  and  bear- 
ing bespoke  inward  complacency. 

''  How  fine  the  view  must  be  !"  cried  Nathalie,  charmed 
with  her  apartment. 

"  All  the  views  are  fine  from  the  chateau  of  Sainville,"  re- 
plied the  stately  lady ;  '•  indeed,  I  may  say,  they  are  cele- 
brated. My  room  is  close  to  yours  ;  I  mention  this,  lest  you 
fihould  imagine  yourself  secluded  like  some  chatelaine  of  old, 
in  this  '  blue  room  of  the  western  tower,'  which  has  received 
more  than  one  real  chatelaine.  Indeed.  I  hope  you  are  not 
afraid  of  spirits  :  it  is  said  to  be  haunted."' 

Then  followed  a  legend  of  two  beautiful  sisters,  C'onstance 
and  Adelaide  de  Sainville,  who  had  successively  tenanted  this 
apartnieut,  and  both  died  there  in  the  last  century.  Constance 
had  fitted  it  up  as  her  oratory,  and  retired  to  it  daily  for 
meditation  and  prayer ;  she  died  young,  pifi-e  and  happy. 
After  her  death,  it  became  the  sleeping  apartment  of  Ade- 
laide, a  gay  and  voluptuous  lady,  who  caused  the  walls,  left 
bare  by  the  asceti^Constance,  to  be  hung  with  soft  silken 
damask,  and  introduced  the  downy  couch,  the  mirror  and 
crystal  lamp,  presei'ving  only  the  plain  wooden  2^ric-dieu  as  a 
token  of  her  sister's  presence.  She,  too,  it  seemed,  had  died 
young,  but  neither  resigned  nor  happy.  On  the  last  day  of 
her  life  si  e  caused  herself  to  be  attired  in  all  the  gorgeous 
splendor  of  the  old  court  costume,  surveyed  herself  in  the 
mirror,  and  with  many  sighs  and  tears,  bade  youth  and  beauty 
farewell.  Her  restless  spirit  was  said  to  haunt  the  spot. 
Madame  Marceau  smilingly  assui-ed  the  young  girl  this  was 
only  an  idle  report.  But  though  she  spoke  of  the  blue  room 
of  the  western  tower,  and  of  the  family  legends,  with  seeming 
carelessness,  her  studied  fluency  of  speech,  as  she  recalled 
those  associations  of  the  past,  betrayed  her  secret  satisfac- 
tion and  inward  pride.  She  seemed  gratified  at  Nathalie's 
attention. 

"It  is  wrong  in  me."  she  said,  "to  be  detaining  you  from 


56  NATHALIE. 

your  rest;  good  night,  Mademoiselle  Moutolieu ;  may  yonz 
lirst  night's  sleej:)  under  the  roof  of  our  house  be  peaceful  and 
happy." 

She  spoke  with  the  stately  courtesy  of  a  real  chatelaine, 
drew  the  young  girl  towards  her,  stooped — for  she  was  much 
taller — imprinted  a  kiss  on  her  forehead,  and  glided  out  of  the 
room. 

It  was  not  until  the  sound  of  her  steps  died  away  in  the 
passage,  and  on  the  distant  staircase,  that  Nathalie  ■^elt  herself 
alone.  She  sat  down  on  a  low  couch,  and  leaning  back,  looked 
around  her  with  naif  and  childish  interest.  The  bed  stood 
before  her  in  a  deep  recess,  shrouded  by  curtains  of  the  clear- 
est muslin  ;  near  it  stood  the  wooden  jxrie-dieu  of  the  devout 
Con.stance,  and  not  far  from  it,  on  a  low  cabinet  of  carved  eb- 
ony, the  gleaming  oral  mirror,  with  its  tarnished  frame,  in 
which  her  more  earthly  sister  surveyed  herself  before  she  died. 
These  reminiscences  charmed  the  romantic  mind  of  Nathalie. 
The  quaint  old  china  which  adorned  the  mantel-shelf,  the  pic- 
tures of  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  in  hoops,  and  even  a 
discolored  mother-of-pearl  table  and  work-bos,  gave  a  new  in- 
terest to  every  thing  around  her  ;  the  sight  of  her  trunk,  un- 
perceived  till  then,  suddenly  recalled  her  from  the  past  to  the 
present. 

This  day  ba(!  been  one  of  the  few  eventful  days  in  her  quiet 
life,  and  it  now  returned  to  her  in  its  minutest  incidents,  with 
the  fuss  of  the  morning  ;  the  prize  ceremony,  at  which  she 
laughed,  but  which  amused  and  interested^er,  in  spite  of  her 
laughing  ;  the  breaking  up,  and  the  parting  from  a  few  pet 
pupils,  who  crowded  around  her,  and  gave  her  many  a  farewell 
kiss.  She  remembered  how,  when  all  was  over,  she  had  gone 
up  to  h  ?r  room,  and  watched  from  the  window  a  carriage,  which 
bore  away  a  gay  young  creature  of  sixteen,  who  was  to  return 
no  more  to  school ;  how  sad  she  felt,  as  that  carriage  wound 
along  the  dusty  road,  and  vanished  in  the  distance  ;  how  long- 
ingly she  looked  at  the  unknown  regions  of  happiness  and 
pleasure  that  extended  beyond  those  green  hills,  and  felt  like 
a  lady  of  romance,  captive  in  her  solitary  bower,  guarded  by 
the  Bantin  dragon.  How  she  wept  a  little  at  her  loneliness, 
and  then  dried  her  tears,  and  read  till  dusk,  when  she  went 
down  to  the  garden  to  dream  away  an  hour,  until  called  in  fo? 
quarrel,  reproach,  and  dismissal.  The  interview  with  Charles 
Marceau,  the  scene  with  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  the  meeting 
with  the  little  Chevalier,  the  sudden  appearance  of  Madams 


NATHALIE.  57 

Marceau, — all  came  back  to  her  with  the  vividness  of  reality, 
until  at  length  recurred  the  most  startling  remembrance  of 
all ;  she,  the  poor,  dependent  girl,  was  now  a  guest  in  the  cha 
teau  of  Sainville.  She  looked  around  her,  and  smiled  to  her 
self,  then  rose,  and  opened  the  window,  a  real  Gothic  casement, 
with  lozenge  panes  in  lead  casings.  The  night  was  dark  ;  she 
could  see  nothing,  save  a  bright  light  burning  in  the  turret 
facing  her.  Through  the  glass  panes  and  thin  muslin  curtains 
appeared  the  figure  of  a  man,  slowly  pacing  the  room  up  and 
down.  He  looked  taller  than  Charles  Marceau,  who,  moreover, 
was  not  at  home.  Nathalie's  heart  beat  a  little  ;  for  though 
the  distance  was  too  great  for  her  to  distinguish  his  features, 
she  felt  that  she  was  gazing  on  the  master  of  Sainville.  She 
softly  closed  the  window,  and  after  a  little  fit  of  musing,  ex- 
tinguished the  lamp,  and  took  possession  of  the  downy  bed 
which  had  formerly  received  the  beautiful  Adelaide.  As  the 
young  girl  sank  into  her  voluptuous  couch,  and,  by  the  faint, 
glimmering  light  which  the  dying  lamp  still  shed,  gazed  on  the 
antique,  but  not  ungraceful,  furniture  of  her  apartment,  she 
asked  herself  if  some  Arabian  genie  had  not  transported  her 
there  from  the  bare  room  she  occupied  at  Mademoiselle  Dan- 
tin's.  None  but  pleasant  visions  now  flitted  before  her;  every 
thing  seemed  bright  and  hopeful  as  a  fairy  tale  ;  the  sense  of 
security  and  rest,  after  the  storms  and  chances" of  the  day,  was 
blended  with  the  pleasurable  sensations  of  her  luxurious  couch. 
As  she  abandoned  herself  to  this  indolent  repose,  thought 
gradually  became  less  distinct ;  but  her  bed  faced  the  window ; 
the  light  still  burned  in  the  turret  opposite,  and  every  now  and 
then  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  dark  figure,  moving  to  and  fro 
in  its  monotonous  promenade.  The  sight  exercised  an  irre- 
sistible and  mysterious  fascination  upon  her ;  every  time  tho 
figure  came  within  view,  her  look  followed  it  until  it  vanished. 
At  length,  opi)ressed  with  fatigue  and  sleep,  her  eyes  closed  ; 
the  light  still  shone  opposite,  but  she  heeded  it  not ;  dreams, 
hopes,  and  mysterious  imaginings  had  faded  away ;  her  head 
reclined  on  her  pillow  ;  her  hands  lay  folded  on  her  bosom ; 
ebc  had  fallen  into  deep  and  peaceful  slumber. 


58  NATHALTF 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  sun  liad  risen  ;  the  sky  was  serene  and  blue,  and  the 
birds  sang  on  a  group  of  tall  poplars  near  her  window,  when 
Nathalie  awoke  on  the  following  morning.  She  rose  quickly, 
and  merely  throwing  a  shawl  around  her,  she  hastened  to  open 
the  window  with  childish  impatience.  Though  she  prudently 
kept  in  the  background,  lest  she  might  be  seen  from  the  gar- 
den, or  any  part  of  tlie  building,  she  could  still  enjoy  the  cool 
morning  breeze,  and  the  greater  portion  of  the  fine  prospect 
below  her. 

It  was  a  calm  morning,  silent,  and  somewhat  chill ;  the 
sky,  of  a  pale  blue,  was  still  tinged  with  the  gray  of  early 
morn,  save  in  the  east,  where  the  soft,  rosy  light  of  dawn  siill 
lingered.  The  trees,  some  of  them  already  sere  and  yellow, 
were  seen  through  a  hazy  mist,  that  glittered  in  the  long  hori- 
sontal  rays  of  light ;  the  freshness  of  earth  and  sky  told  the 
earliness  of  the  hour. 

Beneath  her,  Nathalie  beheld  tlie  garden,  with  its  tliree 
terraces,  the  last  of  which  descended  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
shallow  river  that  wound  along  Sainville  ;  this  garden  now  look- 
ed a  small  space  in  the  midst  of  the  surrounding  grounds.  Her 
glance  rested  for  a  while  on  its  gravel  walks,  trim  boxwood 
hedges,  grassplots,  and  marble  statues  ;  then  wandered  over 
the  grounds,  laid  out  with  graceful  clumps  of  trees  and  groves 
of  stately  pine.  At  a  distance,  she  beheld  a  little  artificial 
lake,  with  its  dark  waters,  that  seemed  to  lie  sleeping  in  the 
solemn  shadow  of  a  wide-spreading  and  melancholy  cedar ;  far- 
ther on,  in  a  still  more  secluded  spot,  rose  a  white  temple, 
gleaming  amidst  the  dark  foliage  of  surrounding  firs.  Save 
on  the  side  of  Mademoiselle  Dantin's  school,  the  gardener's  art 
had  succeeded  in  concealing  every  trace  of  a  boundary.  Natha- 
lie could  only  estimate  the  extent  of  the  grounds  by  the  land- 
scape beyond  ;  it  spread  far  away  on  the  other  side  of  the  wind- 
ing road ;  and  a  fair  Norman  landscape  it  was,  with  low,  swell- 
ing hills,  secluded  hamlets  in  green  valleys,  and  silvery  streams, 
glancing  in  the  morning  sun,  now  gliding  visible  through  fer- 
tile plains,  or  winding  far  away  in  dark  and  overhanging 
woods.     Nathalie  looked  long  and  eagerly. 

"  This  cool  Normandy  is  beautiful,  after  all,"  she  thought, 
whilst  her  heart  filled  with  admiration  and  joy.     True  joy  is 


XATIIAME.  59 

almost  always  religious ;  and  it  was  before  that  open  window, 
her  hands  clasped,  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  glorious  works  of 
God,  the  cool  breeze  fanning  her  brow,  that  Nathalie  slowly 
repeated  her  morning  orisons.  The  house  was  still  silent;  slie 
dressed  leisurely,  with  more  than  nsual  care,  and  hesitated 
long  between  two  very  simple  muslin  dresses,  one  blue,  the 
other  pink ;  the  pink  was  chosen  as  most  becoming.  During 
the  progress  of  her  toilet  she  never  looked  at  the  glass :  3Iadc- 
moiselle  Dantin  forbade  all  such  toys  of  vanity  to  the  teachers 
of  her  establishment,  and  long  habit  enabled  Nathalie  to  do 
without  their  aid,  but  when  slie  had  seen  that  not  one  ungrace- 
ful fold  disfigured  the  light  drapery  of  her  attire,  that  her  hair, 
in  spite  of  its  becoming  negligence,  was  quite  secure,  she  turn- 
ed towards  the  mirror,  and  wondered  with  a  smile,  "  if  Adelaide 
de  Sainville  had  been  so  v-ery  much  more  beautiful." 

Unlike  those  heroines  who  are  as  unconscious  of  their  own 
loveliness  as  is  a  lamp  of  the  light  it  diffuses,  Nathalie  knew 
very  well  that  she  was  handsome,  and  often 'rejoiced  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  her  fresh  and  youthful  beauty,  which,  though  it 
had  failed  to  soften  the  morose  schoolmistress,  rendered  her.  and 
this  also  she  knew,  very  pleasant  and  delightful  in  the  eyes  of 
others.  But  personal  vanity  was,  after  all,  her  least  defect ; 
phe  had  other  faults  far  more  serious,  far  more  fatal  to  herself 
and  others,  and  without  which  this  story  need  never  have  been 
written. 

A  thin,  sallow  but  smartly-attired  femme-de-chambrc,  in 
fantastic  cap  and  extravagantl}'  small  apron,  disturbed  hor  re- 
flections. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !"  she  observed  with  the  fluency  of  speech  and 
elegant  precision  of  accent  of  the  Parisan,  '•  I  hope  I  have  not 
disturbed  mademoiselle.  Madame  would  bo  in  despair.  Ma- 
dame only  sent  me  to  know  whether  madcmQisellc  needed  my 
assistance,  and  would  breakfast  in  her  own  room  or  in  the  sallo- 
a-manger." 

She  spoke  thus  with  a  rapid  look  that  comprised  every 
thing  in  the  room  from  the  least  straggling  article  of  dress 
down  to  Nathalie's  solitary  trunk.  The  young  girl  thanked 
her  quietly,  said  she  would  breakfast  below,  and  followed  down 
stairs  the  polite  femme-de-chambre,  who  offered  to  show  her 
the  way.  She  found  the  Canoness  and  her  niece  alone  in  the 
dining-room,  a  wide  and  cheerful-looking  apartment  on  the 
ground  floor,  witli  a  large  glass  door  that  led  into  a  small  quad- 
rangular court,  beyond  which   extended    the   garden.     Aunt 


50  NATHALIE 

Radegonde  nodded  to  Nathalie  with  smiling  -vireleome  ;  Ma 
dame  Marceau  did  not  see  or  appear  to  see  her  until  she  stood 
by  her  side.     She  then  exclaimed: 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  !"  with  an  apologetic  start,  half 
rose  from  her  chair,  held  out  the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  Natha- 
lie with  stately  grace,  and,  sinking  back  in  her  seat,  "  hoped 
she  had  slept  well."  She  hoped  with  a  tone  and  look  that  said 
every  one  did  sleep  well,  or  ought  to  sleep  well  in  the  chateau 
of  Sainville.  With  a  smile  Nathalie  thanked  her :  "  her  sleep 
was  always  good.''  "  Indeed  i"  said  Sladame  Marceau,  with  a 
peculiar  look ;  perhaps  she  thought  it  vulgar,  as  it  no  doubt  is, 
to  sleep  soundly ;  at  ail  events  she  drew  out  and  applied  the 
vinaigrette. 

Good  breeding  and  refinement,  or  rather  the  externals  of 
these  qualities,  are  generally  considered  as  wholly  precluding 
those  vulgar  manifestations  of  ill-temper,  rudeness,  imperti- 
nence, and  similar  feelings,  which  the  unsophisticated  display 
with  such  perfect  frankness.  But  it  does  not  thence  follow 
that  the  well-bred  and  refined  have  not  their  little  spites,  little 
envious  feelings,  little  assumptions  of  consequence  to  gratify ; 
indeed  they  do  gratify  them  very  freely ;  all  the  difference  lies 
in  the  manner ;  for  there  is  a  finish,  a  delicacy  of  touch  in  the 
polite  impertinence  of  the  well-bred  which  the  under-bred  may 
envy,  but  must  never  hope  to  attain.  The  slight  that  can  be 
conveyed  in  a  glance,  in  a  gracious  smile,  in  a  wave  of  the 
hand,  is  often  the  ne  plus  rdtra  of  art ;  what  insult  is  so  keen 
or  so  keenly  felt  as  the  polite  insult  which  it  is  impossible  to 
resent  ? 

Madame  Marceau,  without  being  a  very  clever  woman,  had 
some  talent  and  proficiency  in  this  amiable  accomplishment. 
She  could  put  down  any  one,  especially  another  woman,  in 
the  most  gracious,  manner.  She  never  was  rude  ;  indeed  she 
was  alwiys  studiously  polite,  courteous  and  stately,  as  so  great 
a  lady  snould  be.  Her  manner  was  easy,  her  speech  was  fluent, 
her  voice  was  soft ;  but  her  grace  was  onl}''  manner  ;  her  cour- 
tesy sprang  from  jealous  pride.  When  the  fortunes  of  her 
family  were  at  their  lowest  ebb,  Rosalie  de  Sainville  had  mar- 
ried a  rich  plebeian  merchant  of  Havre,  whose  speedy  ruin  and 
death  left  her  the  bitter  regret  of  a  useless  oiiesalliance.  The 
sudden  restoration  of  family  dignity  effected  by  her  brother, 
awoke  in  all  its  strength  her  embittered  and  long-repressed 
pride.  In  spite  of  her  long  line  of  ancestors  she  had  stilj 
something  of  the  parvcmic ;  she  felt  more  jealous  of  her  origi 


NATHALIE,  61 

nal  position  tlian  if  she  had  never  descended  from  it ;  others 
might  aiford  to  be  simple  and  careless  of  rank  ;  she  felt  that 
she  could  not,  especially  with  Nathalie.  Two  sins  lay  at  the 
young  girl's  door :  she  had  attracted  the  attention  of  Charles 
Marceau ;  worse  still,  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  man  who,  iv 
Madame  Marceau's  fallen  fortunes  and  humbled  state,  had 
without  undue  presumption,  hoped  to  make  her  his  wife. 

The  breakfast,  at  which  Monsieur  de  Sainville  did  not  ap- 
pear, was  a  plain  meal.  Madame  Marceau  held  bourgeois 
abundance  in  horror  ;  but  it  was  served  in  costly  Sevres  porce- 
lain, on  silver  salvers,  with  the  crest  of  the  SaiuA^illes.  Nathalie 
bore  the  studied  politeness  of  her  hostess  with  perfect  calm- 
ness ;  she  received  the  courtesy  as  genuine,  and  allowed  the 
impertinence  to  drop  all  harmless  at  her  feet.  The  repasi^ 
though  thus  converted  into  a  sort  of  tilt  avcc  amies  coiirioiscs, 
was  quiet  enough.  The  naive  curiosity  and  garrulousness  of 
the  Canoness  amused  Nathalie,  but  evidently  provoked  her 
niece,  who  colored,  and  bit  her  lip  at  every  fresh  indiscretion 
of  Aunt  Radegonde.  As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  Madame 
Marceau  proposed  a  walk  in  the  garden,  to  Nathalie,  who 
readily  assented.  The  Canoness  seemed  willing  to  accompany 
them,  but  her  niece  reminded  her,  in  her  kindest  tones,  "  tliat 
those  early  walks  always  fatigued  her  so  much."  Aunt  lladc- 
gonde  yielded,  with  evident  regret. 

The  garden  was  laid  out  in  the  stately  style  of  Lo'\;« 
XIV's  reign.  Broad  gravel  walks  surrounded  quaintly-shaped 
plots  of  flowers  ;  low  hedges  of  box-wood,  cut  close,  with  niches 
for  statues  of  heathen  deities,  crossed  one  another  in  intricate 
windings,  or  extended  into  little  avenues,  ornamented  on  either 
side  with  long  rows  of  stiff  orange-trees,  in  their  green  boxes, 
and  a  sparklingjei  d^eau  rose  into  the  air  from  a  large  marble 
fish-pond  in  the  middle  of  the  first  terrace.  Notwithstanding 
the  monotony  of  this  style  of  gardening,  which  made  it  quite  a 
relief  when  they  came  to  a  secluded  grass-plot,  with  its  solitary 
nymph,  Nathalie  was  struck  with  its  antique  majesty  and  gran- 
deur of  design,  both  of  which  at  once  seemed  to  carry  her  back 
to  the  stately  age  of  the  magnificent  Louis  XIV.  Madame 
Marceau,  who  paced  the  broad  walks  with  slow  step  and  erect 
majesty  of  bearing,  smiled  complacently  at  her  frankly-express- 
ad  admiration. 

'•Yes,"  she  carelessly  observed,  "this  old  gardening  is.  an 
you  say,  very  characteristic.  This  garden  was  designed  by  the 
famous  Le  Notre.     It  suits  the  style  of  the  chateau  ;  JRenaU' 


52  NATHALIE, 

iance,  as  jou  know,  of  course.  Ou  the  spot  ■which  the  preseul 
building  occupies,  once  stood  a  rude  Gothic  pile,  erected  by 
Hugo,  first  sire  of  Sainville ;  for  wo  never  had  a  title  in  our 
family  ;  we  are  the  De  Saiuvilles — no  more." 

'•  Like  the  old  Kohans  of  Brittany,"  demurely  said  Nathalie, 
quoting  the  old  motto,  "  Roi  ne  puis  ;  Prince  ne  daigne  ;  Rohan 
je  suis." 

"  Precisely."  replied  Madame  Marceau,  much  gratified. 
"  You  have  quite  a  knowledge  of  history,  Mademoiselle  Mon- 
tolieu,  and  you  are  right ;  titles  are  the  gifts  of  kings,  but  what 
court  favor  can  bestow  blood  and  race  "3" 

"  1  wonder  where  you  got  your  plebeian  name  of  Marceau?" 
thought  Nathalie,  glancing  at  the  proud  lady,  who  continued: 

"  Armand  do  Sainville  erected,  under  the  reign  of  Francis 
I,  the  present  chateau,  on  which  his  scutcheon  and  motto  stil 
appear." 

"Pray  what  is  the  true  sense  of  that  motto'?"  asked 
Nathalie. 

Madame  Marceau  shook  her  head  and  smiled. 

"  A  sensitive  point.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu — a  sensitive 
point,"  she  significantly  replied.  "  The  vulgar  legend,  which 
you  have  no  doubt  heard,  says  that  this  only  desire  was  one  of 
love,  but  it  is  not  so." 

'•  Indeed  !" 

"  No,  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  it  is  not  so.  The  truth  is,'' 
she  added,  with  great  candor,  "•  that  we  are  the  most  obstinate. 
tetic  race  in  all  Normandy.  When  we  wish  for  a  thing,  no 
matter  what  — say  a  horse,  a  picture,  a  piece  of  land,  any  thing, 
in  short, — we  must  have  it,  no  matter  at  Avhat  price ;  indeed, 
we  will  have  it.  It  is  just  the  same  when  we  .oppose  a  thing  ; 
that  thing  cannot  take  place  ;  all  our  energies  go  against 
it ;  we  oppose  that  thing,  in  short." 

''  Extraordinary  firmness,"  said  Nathalie,  with  ill-concealed 
irony. 

"  No,  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  ;  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  no,  it 
is  not  firmness,"  said  Madame  Marceau,  with  dignified  denial. 
"  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  thus  screen  our  fatal  hereditary 
failing.  No  ;  it  is  mere  obstinacy,  mere  haughty  will — the 
will  of  the  De  Sainvilles." 

"  Why,  madam,  you  will  make  me  feel  quite  timid,"  ob- 
served Nathalie,  smiling. 

"  Nay,  nay,  I  hope  not,"  graciously  rejoined  the  elder 
lady  ;  "  I  assure  you  we  are  far  from  wishing  to  inspire  such 


NATHALIE.  63 

feelings  ;  besides,  you  must  not  think  that  we  are  merely 
obstinate.  No,  my  clear  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  she  add- 
ed, bending  her  dark  and  searching  glance  on  the  young  girl's 
frank  face,  '-we  can  indeed  be  enemies  ;  but  we  must  be  pro^ 
voked :  and,  believe  me,  to  those  who  confide  in  us,  we  can  be 
friends, — true  friends." 

She  familiarly  drew  Nathalie's  arm  within  her  own,  and 
Boftly  laid  her  handsome  hand,  all  sparkling  with  jewels,  on 
the  young  girl's,  as  she  thus  addressed  her,  with  much  emo- 
tion. The  look,  tone,  and  gesture  were  so  significant,  that 
Nathalie  felt  as  if  a  reply  were  expected ;  but  as  she  did  not 
happen^to  be  in  a  mood  to  answer  so  much  condescension 
suitably,  she  remained  silent.  They  had  reached  by  this  the 
end  of  the  first  terrace,  and  were  going  to  descend  a  flight  of 
steps  that  led  to  the  second,  when  Madame  Marceau,  who 
kindly  attributed  the  young  girl's  silence  to  timidity,  paused, 
to  let  her  look  at  the  fine  prospect  over  the  surrounding 
grounds.  She  listened  to  her  expressions  of  admiration  with 
as  much  complacency  as  if  she  had  been  the  exclusive  mistress 
of  all  they  beheld. 

"AVe  are  making  great  improvements,"  said  she,  speaking, 
as  usual,  in  the  plural  number,  and  in  her  own  stately  way ; 
"  planting  trees,  whose  growth  we  shall  never  see  ;  but  as  the 
property  remains  in  the  family,  that  is  not  of  much  conse- 
quence." 

"  I  had  always  understood,"  heedlessly  observed  Nathalie, 
"  that  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  the  last  of  his  name." 

Madame  Marceau  bit  her  lip.  but  drew  herself  up  with 
cool  hauteur. 

"  Monsieur  de  Sainville  may  be  the  last  of  his  name,"  she 
dryly  replied  ;  "  but  though  he  has  no  child,  and  does  not  in- 
tend marrying,  he  has  a  nephew,  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  who 
succeeds,  of  course,  not  only  to  the  family  property,  but,  what 
is  far  more  important,  to  the  family  name.  Well.  Andre,  what 
is  it?"  she  added,  somewhat  sharply. 

This  question  was  addressed  to  a  sun-burnt  looking  man, 
a  gardener,  seemingly,  and  who  now  stood  before  Madame  Mar- 
ceau in  a  respectful  attitude.  "  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of 
addressing  madamc,"  said  he,  in  a  submissive  tone,  "  in  the 
hope  that  madame  would  be  kind  enough  to  intei'cede  for  me." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?"  said  the  lady,  smiling  encouragingly. 

"  Oil !  if  I  only  knew  it.  I  assure  madame  that  I  should  not 
complain  ;  but  it  is  hard  to  be  dismissed  for  neglect  of  orders 


G'l  NATHALIE. 

without  so  much  as  knowing  what  order  has  been  neglected 
Yet  if  madame  would  only  speak  for  me,  monsieur  would  per 
haps  relent  for  the  sake  of  my  wife  and  children." 

Madame  Marceau  looked  disconcerted  for  a  moment;  but 
she  soon  recovered  with  a  cough,  and  observed,  with  dignified 
gravity : 

"  Andre,  you  know  us  ;  we  are  just,  liberal  masters,  but 
we  require,  we  exact  obedience.  I  verily  believe  we  would 
sooner  forgive  dishonesty  itself  than  neglect  of  orders.  I 
think  I  told  you  so  expressly  when  you  entered  our  service  ; 
I  feel  sorry  for  you,  but  you  must  leave." 

"  But  surely,  madame  will  feel  how  hard  it  is  to  ^o  this 
very  day ;  to  be  sure  monsieur  has  been  extremely  liberal,  and 
told  the  steward  to  give  me  not  only  my  due,  but  much  more  ; 
still  it  is  hard  to  leave  one's  work  unfinished ;  there  is  a  whole 
plantation  that  another  will  only  spoil,  I  am  sure.  If  I  could 
only  have  had  longer  notice,  and  if  monsieur  had  not  been  so 
strict  in  saying  that  I  must  leave  this  very  day " 

"  Impossible,  Andre,"  interrupted  Madame  Marceau ;  '-it 
is  our  maxim,  our  settled  principle, — rather  to  pay  double 
what  we  owe  than  to  keep  a  servant  with  whom  we  feel  dissatis- 
fied. You  have  been  treated  on  that  principle ;  I  feel  sorry 
for  you  ;  but  we  cannot  break  through  such  rules  for  any  indi- 
vidual case." 

"  But  perhaps  madame,  who  knows  all  about  it,  will  be 
good  enough  to  tell  me  what  orders  I  have  neglected,"  per- 
sisted Andre.  "I  should  have  asked  monsieur  himself  if  he 
had  not  left  the  chateau  so  early ;  and  the  steward  assured 
me  monsieur  had  only  said  '  neglect  of  orders.'  I  should  al- 
ways feel  grateful  if  madame  would  only  tell  me." 

Madame   Marceau  drew  herself  up  with  mysterious  ma- 

"  We  are  not  in  the  habit  of  giving  explanations,"  said  she, 
coldly ;  "  you  can  go,  Andre  ;  we  wish  to  continue  our  walk. 
Tell  your  wife  to  speak  to  Amanda  before  she  leaves  ;  Amanda 
will,  I  dare  say,  have  something  for  her.  We  v/ish  you  well, 
Andre,  but  our  rules  and  principles  must  be  carried  out." 

A  wave  of  the  hand  told  the  supplicant  that  he  was  dis- 
missed. 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  ejaculated  Madame  Marceau,  as  he  left 
them  ;  "  I  really  compassionate  his  case,  but  some  faults  are 
positively  quite  unpardonable." 

A  quick  step  in  the  gravel  walk  behind  them  caused  Ma 


NATHALIE. 


65 


dame  Marceaii  to  look  round  as  she  spoke  thus.     The  new 
comer  was  the  elegant  lady's  maid. 

"  Madame."  said  she,  hastily  addressing  her  mistress. 

"  Amanda,"  severely  interrupted  Madame  Marceau,  '•  hovt 
is  this  ?  Have  I  not  made  it  a  particular  request  that  my 
morning  walk  should  never  be  interrupted  ?  But  this  is  not 
the  only  recent  instance  of  neglect  of  orders  I  have  discovered. 
AVhy  it  was  only  this  morning  I  perceived  the  thing  I  had  ex- 
pressly asked  you  to  do  had  been  omitted.  Amanda,  I  may 
say,  and  you  probably  know  it,  every  one  indeed  knows  it, 
that  justness  mingled  with  due  strictness  is  our  family  peculi- 
arity. We  are  kind  masters,  we  pay  well,  but  obeyed  we  will 
be.  Amanda,  why  did  you  not  put  the  Valenciennes  lace 
quilling  around  my  morning  gown  ?" 

"  I  am  sure,"  aemurely  said  Amanda,  "  that  disrespect  of 
madame's  orders  was  the  last  thing  I  intended ;  but  I  would 
not  put  on  the  quilling  until  I  had  appealed  to  madame's  ex- 
cellent taste.  For  as  I  was  saying,  my  late  mistress,  Madame 
la  Comtesse  d'Onesson,  would  never  allow  me  to  put  any  quill- 
ing to  her  morning  gowns.  She  would  not  hear  of  such  a 
thing,  even  in  her  last  illness." 

'•Madame  d'Onesson  had  her  way  and  I  have  mine,"  fri- 
gidly said  Madame  Marceau  ;  "  I  beg  that  in  future  you  will 
attend  to  my  orders  ;  there  is  Andre,  whom  we  have  been 
compelled  to  dismiss  for  similar  negligence.  It  is  extraordi- 
nary, but  really  servants  do  not  seem  to  understand  that  we 
have  them  to  do  that  which  we  request  to  haVe  done.  And 
now.  may  I  know  why,  in  spite  of  my  prohibition,  you  have 
interrupted  my  walk?" 

"  Only  to  give  madame  this  letter,"  modestly  replied 
Amanda,  respectfully  handing  a  letter  to  her  mistress  as  she 
spoke ;  '•  and  I  am  sure,  if  the  man  who  brought  it  had  not 
said  it  was  from  Monsieur  Charles,  and  very  important,  I 
should  never  have  taken  the  liberty  of  breaking  through 
madame's  express  rules  ;  for,  as  I  was  saying,  we  all  know  that 
madame  is  as  strict  as  she  is  generous." 

Madame  Marceau  coughed  a  mollified  cough,  and  slightly 
apologizing  to  Nathalie,  she  opened  and  read  the  letter.  Her 
countenance  darkened  as  she  perused  the  contents. 

"Where  is  the  man  who  brought  this?"  she  asked,  in  her 
eharpest  tones. 

"  In  the  hall,  waiting  for  madame's  answer." 

'•Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  will  you  excuse  me?    I  find  I 


86  NATHALIE. 


nmst  go  in.  and  it  would  be  a  sin  to  ask  you  to  return  to  th« 
house  on  so  fine  a  morning." 

Nathalie  having  declared  that  she  would  indeed  greatly 
prefer  continuing  her  walk,  she  was  left  alone.  She  thought- 
fully descended  the  steps  leading  to  the  second  terrace,  wonder- 
ing  why  the  letter  from  her  son  had  annoyed  Madame  Marceau 
so  much,  and  whether  it  bore  any  reference  to  herself. 

She  found  that  this  second  terrace  was  laid  out  in  the  sama 
antique  style  which  distinguished  the  first.  A  low  wall  covered 
with  ivy,  and  partly  concealed  by  a  semicircle  of  evergreens, 
extended  between  the  flights  of  steps  that  led  down  to  the 
terrace  on  either  side.  Attracted  by  a  low  plashing  sound, 
Nathalie  stepped  within  the  space  thus  inclosed.  She  found 
herself  in  a  narrow  grass-plot,  with  a  plain  stone  fountain  in 
the  centre  A  clear,  slender  jet  of  water  rose  into  the  air,  and 
fell  down  again  into  its  shallow  basin  with  the  sound  she  had 
heard.  In  a  low,  broad  niche,  hollowed  out  of  the  ivied  wall, 
reclined  the  figure  of  a  sculptured  nymph.  One  arm  supported 
her  head,  the  other  hung  down  loosely  by  her  side  ;  her  eyes 
were  closed ;  her  marble  features  expressed  the  serenity  of 
sleep  ;  the  whole  attitude  was  one  of  deep  repose.  A  beehive 
stood  close  by.  Nathalie  paused,  and  wondered  as  she  looked, 
in  what  consisted  the  charms  of  this  narrow  spot.  In  its  seclu- 
sion, and  the  sense  of  solitude  by  which  it  was  accompanied — 
in  the  dark  and  melancholy  foliage  of  those  northern  trees — in 
the  fair  image  of  sleep,  hallowing  all  around,  and  seemingly 
lulled  to  its  deep  slumbers  by  the  low  sound  of  falling  waters 
and  t'le  bee's  murmuring  hum — lay  that  charm,  unexplained, 
thougn  deeply  felt. 

Another  flight  of  steps  led  Nathalie  to  the  end  of  the  gar- 
den, if  garden  it  might  be  called,  being  now  a  mere  grassy  slope 
bounded  by  the  river,  and  extending  without  further  barrier 
into  the  grounds.  On  her  left,  she  beheld  at  a  distance  the 
wall  which  divided  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  property  from  Ma- 
demoiselle Dantin's  garden.  On  her  right  she  could  see  nothing 
save  wide  lawns,  with  groves  of  spreading  beech-trees,  dai-k 
masses  of  the  pyramidal  pine,  and  the  little  lake  shining  in  the 
distance. 

As  she  walked  down  to  the  water's  edge,  stepping  into  the 
high  and  waving  grass  which  filled  the  air  with  its  wild  fra- 
grance, a  whole  crowd  of  tiny  winged  insects  arose  on  her  path. 
She  paused  near  the  hollow  trunk  of  a  decayed  willow ;  near 
her  a  group  of  silver-leaved  aspens  trembled  in  the  sun  with  a 


NATHALIE.  67 

low  rustling  sound  ;  the  water  flowed  quietly  in  its  pebbly  bod; 
whilst  around  was  heard  the  ceaseless  hum  of  the  bees  from  tho 
neighboring  hive.  On  the  opposite  bank,  formed  by  the  wide 
arch  of  two  large  beech-trees,  whose  spreading  shadow  slept 
over  the  dark  yet  transparent  waters  of  the  river  at  her  feet, 
extended  a  rural  landscape  of  calm  loveliness.  A  narrow  pas- 
ture valley,  sheltered  by  green  hills ;  a  herd  of  cattle  grazing 
quietly  in  the  cool  morning  shade  ;  the  light  mist  fading  away 
before  the  early  sun ;  no  human  dwelling  visible,  but  every  thing 
wrapped  in  the  silence  and  repose  of  the  hour, — formed  a  scene 
60  tranquil  and  so  fair  that  it  instantly  reminded  Nathalie  of  a 
picture  by  Claude  Lorraine  which  she  had  seen  as  a  child  in  an 
old  chateau  of  Provence.  The  absence  of  all  ungraceful  ob- 
jects— the  clear,  golden-colored  light — the  deep  and  almost  holy 
serenity  of  his  favorite  scenes — marked  every  thing  she  now 
saw.  She  was  turning  away  from  this  lovely  prospect  with  re- 
gret, when  slie  suddenly  stopped  short,  as  if  rooted  to  the  earth. 
Charles  Marceau  stood  before  her. 

With  the  exception  that  this  was  daj-,  and  that  it  was  even- 
ing when  she  saw  him  before,  Nathalie  might  have  imagined 
this  to  be  the  continuation  of  their  former  interview.  The 
young  man  looked  as  cool  and  composed  as  when  in  Mademoi- 
selle Dantin's  garden  ;  more  so,  indeed,  he  could  not  look.  He 
stood  in  the  same  attitude,  witli  his  face  turned  towards  Natha- 
lie. His  features,  thin,  pale,  and  yet  strikingly  handsome, 
looked  thinner  and  paler  from  the  mass  of  dark  hair  which  fell 
down  almost  to  his  shoulders.  The  expression  of  the  brow  and 
mouth  instantly  reminded  Nathalie  of  Madame  Marcf  au  ;  but 
the  eyes,  large,  clear,  and  hazel,  like  her's,  had  another  look. 
This  might  be  from  the  eyelids,  which  drooped  rather  too  much, 
or  from  the  nearness  and  fixedness  of  the  pupils,  which  now 
rendered  it  dilEcult  for  Nathalie  to  meet  his  glance,  and  made 
her  feel  not  so  much  that  he  was  looking  at  her,  as  that  he 
looked  in  the  direction  in  which  she  stood.  In  return  to  his 
deep  salutation,  she  gave  him  a  frigid  bow.  He  stood  so  ex- 
actly before  her  that  it  was  not  easy  for  her  to  walk  on. 

"  I  see  you  are  still  deeply  offended,"  said  he,  in  that  low  and 
musical  tone  wliich,  in  spite  of  her-  anger,  had  struck  lier  on  the 
preceding  evening;  "alas  !  can  penitence  for  a  past  error  avail 
nothing  ?" 

He  ]iaus(Ml.  as  if  expecting  an  answer.  Nathalie,  however, 
witli  serious  mien  and  downcast  look,  gave  him  none. 

•'  Pray  remember,"  he  continued,  "how  I  stood  placed.    Wf 


68  NATHALIE. 

often  met:  I  might  look,  but  never  speak;  I  might  write,  yel 
hope  for  no  reply ;  I  loved  you,  but  might  not  tell  it." 

Nathalie  colored,  and  hastened  to  interrupt  him.  "  I  will 
forgive  last  evening's  intrusion,"  said  she,  coldly,  "  on  condition 
that  it  is  never  mentioned  again." 

"  You  forgive  me,"  he  replied  ;  "  is  that  all  ?" 

Nathalie  looked  up  with  surprise.  She  met  his  look  ;  it 
had  now  the  keen  and  watchful  expression  which  had  already 
struck  her.     Seeing  that  she  did  not  speak,  he  continued, 

''  We  are  told  to  forgive  our  enemies.  Is  there,  for  those 
hat  love  us,  no  other  feeling  than  forgiveness  ?" 

"  I  understand  you,  sir,"  said  Nathalie,  eyeing  him  with  a 
firm,  clear  look  ;  "  but  I  am  not  bound  to  answer  a  feeling  I 
never  sought,  nor  to  feel  gratitude " 

"  Gratitude  !"  he  interrupted,  with  something  like  scorn  ; 
'•  who  speaks  of  gratitude  ?  I  detest  gratitude — it  is  only  fit 
for  slavish  souls,  whom  benefits  can  win.  It  is  a  feeling  I 
have  never  known,  and  care  not  to  exact — least  of  all  from 
you — you,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  who  inspire  me  with 
another  ambition,  and  far  other  hopes." 

Nathalie  looked  annoj'ed  and  disdainful. 

"  I  believe,"  quietly  continued  Chaflcs  Marceau,  "  that  by 
speaking  thus  I  impress  you  unfavorably.  Forgive  me ;  1 
must  speak  as  I  feel,  and  that  is  within  no  sphere  of  conven- 
tional or  formal  rules.  You  may  think  me  presumptuous,  yet 
trust  me,  I  do  not  mistake  your  present  feelings.  I  will  not 
say  that  you  hate  me,  that  I  am  disagreeable  to  you ;  I  be- 
lieve I  am  totally  indifferent  to  you,  and  that,  compara- 
tively speaking,  you  care  no  more  for  me  than  for  the  grass 
beneath  your  feet." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  with  much  bitterness ;  yet,  to 
Nathalie's  surprise,  the  young  man  composedly  resumed : 

"  I  am  content  it  should  be  so ;  I  am  content  to  find  you 
proud  and  disdainful,  if  such  is  your  whim.  A  hundred  times 
sooner  would  I  see  you  thus,  than  find  you  yielding  a  feeble 
return  to  feelings  you  will  never  understand  until  the  day  ar- 
rives when  you  fully  share  them." 

"  And  that  day,  sir,"  sharply  replied  Nathalie,  who  felt 
irritated  at  the  tone  he  had  ta£:en,  "  is,  I  promise  you,  still  fai 
distant." 

Charles  did  not  seen\  alarmed  at  this  threat.  He  smiled 
again.  "  Once  more,"  said  he,  "  I  must  beg  of  you  to  forgive 
me  if  my  speech  is  not  conf  led  within  conventional  limits. 


NATHALIE.  69 

Nothing  is  further  from  my  intention  than  to  utter  a  word 
calcuLated  to  oifend  you.  If,  cold  as  you  are  now,  I  yet  ex- 
press a  belief  in  your  future  affection,  that  belief  is  not  founded 
on  my  own  merits.  I  trust  to  the  depth  and  fervor  of  ray 
lovo  for  return." 

"  We  will  not  argue  that  point,"  coldly  said  Nathalie ; 
"Madame  Marceau  is  waiting  for  me.  Be  s?  good  as  to 
allow  me  to  proceed." 

"  One  moment  more,  I  beseech  you,"  submissively  said 
Charles  Marceau  ;  "  I  depart  to-day  for  Paris  :  many  months 
must  elapse  before  I  behold  you  again.  Whilst  5-our  thought 
and  image  remain  ever  present  to  me,  may  1  hope  you  will 
sometimes  remember  me  ?" 

Nathalie,  highly  indignant  at  this  request,  could  not  re- 
press the  taunt  which  rose  to  her  lips. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  with  an  ironical  smile,  destined  to  punish 
his  presumption,  "  you  have  so  much  faith  and  hope  at  your 
command,  that  yon  can  well  dispense  with  so  paltry  an  aux- 
iliary as  memory." 

"  You  are  severe,"  bitterly  replied  Charles  Marceau, 
whilst  his  cheek  took  a  sallower  tinge  ;  '•  but,"  he  added,  with 
a  fixed  look,  which  made  her  color  rise,  "  you  cannot  and  shall 
not  prevent  me  from  loving  you,  and  that  with  a  passion  and 
fervor  which,  could  they  be  revealed  by  words,  would  not.  per- 
haps, leave  you  quite  so  calm  and  cold  as  I  leave  you  now." 

lie  turned  away  without  another  word  or  look. 


-•♦< 


CHAPTER  yi. 

Natitatje  remained  standing  in  the  same  place  as  if  rooted 
to  the  spot  by  indignant  amazement.  Her  color  rose  and  she 
bit  her  lip,  alike  vexed  and  astonished  at  herself,  for  having 
allowed  the  young  man  to  proceed  so  far  unchecked. 

The  incident  of  the  letter  recurred  to  her  as  particularly 
significant :  she  could  not  doubt  that  it  was  the  means  Charlen 
Marceau  had  taken  to  meet  her.  The  concealment  of  which 
he  made  use  showed  licr  very  plainly  the  light  in  which  hie 
family  viewed  his  attachment. 

"  They  need   not  fear."  slie  tlionght.  with   secret   scorn  , 


70  NATHALIE. 

"  the  poor  teacher  of  Mademoiselle  Dantin's  school  will  not 
Snd  it  so  hard  to  live  -without  the  heir  of  the  great  Sainvillo 
race,  who,  though  so  daring  with  her,  can,  it  seems,  be  timid 
enough  with  them." 

Not  caring  for  a  longer  walk,  she  returned  to  the  chateau. 
She  would  willingly  have  proceeded  to  her  own  room  at  once, 
but  the  Canoness  meeting  her  on  the  staircase  made  her  enter 
the  drawing-room  ;  Madame  Marceau  was  not  present.  Aunt 
Radegonde  took  her  usual  place,  made  the  young  girl  sit 
down  on  the  low  seat  by  her  side,  began  to  knit,  and  asked 
how  she  liked  the  garden. 

'•'■  Yes,"  she  thoughtfully  observed,  when  Nathalie  had  said 
how  much  she  liked  it:  "yes,  our  old  chateau  is  a  pleasant 
place;  here  was  I  born  and  bred,  and  so  were  Armand  and 
Rosalie;  and  here  I  lived  until  my  poor  brother  died,  when 
Armand  said  at  once  the  place  must  be  sold  to  help  to  cover 
his  fatiier's  debts,  and  passed  his  word  to  the  creditors  to  work 
out  the  rest,  no  matter  at  what  cost.  He  went  away  for  years, 
— wo  had  to  go  to  Havre  ;  yet  I  never  have  understood  how 
Sainville  could  be  sold." 

"And  was  it  sold?"  asked  Nathalie. 

"  1  suppose  so  ;  for  other  people  came  and  we  left ;  but  they 
changed  nothing.  This  room  looks  just  as  it  looked  on  the 
day  when  I  stood  at  the  door  and  turned  round  to  take  a  last 
glance." 

"  How  glad  you  must  have  been  to  return,"  said  Nathalie, 
touched  at  her  simplicity  and  frankness. 

The  Canoness  laid  her  little  hand  on  the  young  girl's 
shoulder,  and  looked  wistfully  into  her  face  "  My  dear  child," 
she  sadlj'  replied,  "may  you  never  know  how  sad  the  place  we 
once  loved  best  may  become.  Sorrowful  as  I  was  when  I  left, 
I  left  not  alone ;  but  I  was  alone  when  I  returned.  I  found 
nothing  but  gaiety  going  on. — but  it  was  mirth  that  saddened 
me  ;  the  house  was  full  of  company, — to  me  it  seemed  vacant." 

She  looked  around  her,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  ;  but 
age  loves  not  to  dwell  on  sorrowful  recollections, — the  cloud 
soon  passed  away  from  the  cheerful  features  of  the  Canoness. 
Slie  urged  Nathalie  to  speak,  and  peremptorily  forbade  her  to 
call  her  Madame,  which  she  pronounced  much  too  formal. 

"  Though,  to  be  sure,"  she  added,  drawing  herself  up,  "  I 
have  a  right  to  the  title,  being  a  Canoness.  I  am  not  made- 
moiselle,— which  would  be  ridiculous  at  my  age, — but  Madame 
Radegonde  de  Sainville,  and  so  the  servants,  whom  T  keep  a1 


NATHALIE,  71 

a  great  distance,  always  call  me ;  but  you, — let  me  sec, — do 
you  miad  calling  me  Marraine  ?  I  might  very  well  be  your 
godmother.  Indeed,  I  feel  almost  confident  that  if  your  poor 
father  had  married  some  one  of  Saiuville,  instead  of  going  oif  to 
Provence  for  a  wife,  I  should  have  been  your  godmother.  Well 
shall  it  be  Marraine,  or  is  your  real  godmother  still  living?" 

'•  No.  she  was  my  aunt,  and  died  three  yeara  age  in  Prov- 
ence." 

'•  And  have  you  no  friends  in  Sainville,  Petite  ?" 

"  None,  save  my  sister,  who  was  brought  up  here,"  replied 
Nathalie,  smiling  at  the  familiar  name  the  Canoness  had  already 
found  for  her. 

'•  But  your  sister  is  very  fond  of  you,  I  am  sure,"  shrewdly 
rejoined  Aunt  liadegonde,  with  an  air  of  mingled  bonhomie 
and  finesse.  '•  Oh  !  I  know  what  an  elder  sister  is,"  she  added. 
as  Nathalie  smiled  in  reply.  '•  When  your  aunt  died  in  Prov- 
ence, and  you  must  have  been  very  young  then,  for  indeed  you 
are  a  child  still," — Nathalie  looked  a  little  indignant. — ••  our 
good  sister  Hose  took  the  little  orphan,  and  became  to  her  more 
like  a  second  mother  than  like  a  strange  sister ;  only  I  cannot 
understand  why  she  let  her  be  at  that  sour  Mademoiselle  Dan 
tin's?" 

"  Because  Bose  is  a  dependent,  like  myself,"  replied  Na- 
thalie, "  and  resided  with  an  aunt  far  more  sour  than  Made- 
moiselle Dantin;  all  she  could  do  was  to  find  me  in  her  school 
a  situation  I  was  glad  to  get." 

'•  Depend  upon  it.  Petite,  your  sister  acted  for  the  best ; 
yes,  your  sister  Bose  is  your  friend,"  she  eiuphaticallv  added. 

"  She  is,  indeed  ;  and  though  she  so  often  linds  fault  with 
me,  I  never  can  foel  angry." 

'•  What  does  she  say  then  ?" 

'•  That  I  am  proud,  rebellious,  and  resentful ;  that  I  lovo 
impossibilities  and  disdain  the  real." 

'•  Your  sister  is  a  little  severe,"  said  the  Canoness.  giving 
Nathalie  a  puzzled  look,  "  but  thougli  she  of  course  means 
well,  all  this  is  not  quite  correct,  is  it  V 

'•  Indeed  it  i.s,"  frankly  replied  Nathalie  ;  "  but  then  Bose 
has  a  right  to  be  severe ;  she  is  nearly  perfect  herself." 

'•  It  is  quite  proper  you  should  think  so,"  decisively  said 
the  Canoness ;  '•  but  for  my  part,  I  do  not  dout  on  perfect 
people.  I  know  a  person  of  that  sort,  one  who  seldom  or  ever 
does  wrong ;  but  for  all  that  you  cannot  love  that  person. 
That  person,  my  dear,  never  scolds,  never  gets  into  a  passion. 


72  NA'lHALIli. 

never  says  a  cross  word,  but  just  acts  ia  a  quiet,  underhand 
sort  of  way  that  is  perfectly  chilling.  You  never  know  how 
you  are  getting  on  with  that  person ;  by  which  I  do  not  mean 
to  say  that  person  is  deceitful.  No,  but  that  person  is  just  like 
a  looking-glass ;  look  in  front  as  long  as  you  like,  it  is  all  very 
well ;  but  attempt  to  turn  round,  to  peep  behind,  you  see — • 
nothing.  You  must  not  imagine,  my  dear,"  added  the  Canon- 
ess,  after  a  brief  pause,  and  looking  at  Nathalie  very  fixedly, 
"  that  I  am  talking  of  any  one  in  this  house — no,"  she  shrewdly 
observed,  "  that  person  is  far  away."  This  assertion  was  ut- 
tered quite  triumphantly. 

"  That  person  must  be  very  remarkable,"  thoughtfully  said 
Nathalie,  attentively  looking  at  Aunt  Radegonde  as  she  spoke. 

"  liemarkable  !  well  no,  not  at  first  sight,  at  least ;  and  yet 
that  person  is  no  common  individual." 

"  You  said  perfect,"  quickly  rejoined  Nathalie. 

'■  Well,  perfect  was  perhaps  too  strong  a  word.  Yet  it  is 
difficult  to  find  fault  with  that  person  :  and  a  person  who  in 
spite  of  all  you  can  say  manages  to  be  always  in  the  right  is 
very  nearly  perfect.  Only  it  is  a  provoking  sort  of  perfection  ; 
I  do  not  like  it,"  very  emphatically  added  Aunt  Radegonde ; 
"do  you?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Nathalie,  quite  as  heartily. 

Here  the  voice  of  Madame  Marceau  was  heard  on  the  land- 
ing, talking  to  one  of  the  servants. 

Aunt  Radegonde  looked  alarmed,  bent  down,  and  exclaimed 
in  a  hurried  whisper  : — 

"  My  dear  child,  do  not  let  Madame  Marceau  know  I  spoke 
to  you  about  that  person." 

"Is  Madame  Marceau  that  person?"  rapidly  thought  Na- 
thalie, as  the  lady  entered  the  room  ;  but  the  aspect  of  the  ruf- 
fled brow,  and  the  sound  of  the  sharp  irritated  voice  as  she 
recorded  the  delinquency  of  some  servant,  did  not  give  the  idea 
of  one  who  never  spoke  a  cross  word,  or  never  scolded. 

"  Really,"  she  said,  with  any  thing  but  a  bland  voice,  "  ser- 
vants do  not  seem  to  appreciate  the  privilege  of  living  in  a 
family  like  this  ;  they  will  not  obey." 

'•  When  we  had  but  one  servant "  began  Aunt  Rade- 
gonde. 

"  The  dismissal  of  Andre  has  produced  no  efi"ect,"  quickly 
interrupted  her  niece. 

"  Andre  !     Do  you  say  Andre  is  dismissed  1" 

Madame  Marceau  majestically  seated  herself,  and  senteu- 


NATHALIE.  73 

tiously  replied  in  answer  to  the  eager  look  and  inquiry  of  her 
aunt,  '•  that  Andre  was  dismissed." 

'•Why  so  V  asked  the  Canoness,  looking  much  chagrined  ; 
"he  is  80  honest  and  industrious." 

'•  Very  true,  aunt,  but  we  require  obedience  in  our  ser- 
vants." 

"  What  order  has  he  neglected?  I  am  sure  the  poor  fellow 
will  only  be  too  glad  to  repair  his  fault." 

"We  are  not  in  the  habit  of  entering  into  explanations 
with  our  servants,"  replied  her  dignified  niece. 

"  But  what  has  he  done,  Kosalie?" 

Madame  Marceau  looked  mysterious. 

"  Ay,  there  it  is !"  ironically  exclaimed  Aunt  Raiegonde, 
rocking  herself  in  her  chair  ;  "  the  man  is  sent  away,  he  does 
not  know  why, — I  do  not  know  why, — do  not  believe  you  know 
why, — nobody  knows,  in  short.  You  call  that  will,  I  call  if 
tyranny.  You  may  tell  any  one  I  said  so  if  you  like  ;  if  others 
are  afraid,  I  warn  any  one  who  likes  to  hear,  that  I  am  not." 

She  spoke  loudly  and  looked  defiant. 

"Aunt,"  patronizingly  said  her  niece,  '-you  surely  ought 
to  be  accustomed  to  the  manifestations  of  our  family  peculiarity 
— tvill,  though  you  do  not  possess  so  much  of  it." 

"  I  have  as  much  will  as  any  one,"  sharply  interrupted  the 
Canoness. 

'•  Be  it  so,"  replied  Madame  Marceau,  with  a  gracious  smile 
and  an  Olympic  inclination  of  the  head,  '•  be  it  so,  dear  aunt ; 
but  as  I  was  saying,  you  ought  to  be  accustomed  to  the  mani- 
festations of  our  family  peculiarity — will.  You  know  my  im- 
partiality ;  I  do  not  justify  this  inexorable  will ; — I  deplore  it. 
But  such  we  are,  and  all  I  can  say  is,  I  feel  truly  sorry  for 
those  who  unfortunately  sufl'er  from  this  peculiarity." 

A  daughter  of  the  Atrida)  could  not  have  lamented  with 
more  solemn  dignity  the  melancholy  fatality  attending  her 
race. 

"  I  tell  you,"  testily  rejoined  Aunt  Iladegonde,  '•  it  is  not 
will,  but  the  despotism  and  caprice  I  know  of  old. — There !" 
With  this  last  bold  defiance  she  resumed  her  knitting. 

''My  good  aunt,"  replied  Madame  Marceau,  becoming  more 
polite  and  more  cool,  "  excuse  me  :  energy  is  not  despotism  : 
justice  ia  not  caprice.  These  qualities  have  restored  our  fami- 
ly to  its  pristine  splendor  ; — they  will  keep  it  there.  We  may 
regret  that  those  inflexible  virtues  should  interfere  with  tho 
happiness  of  any  person,  howsoever  humble  that  person  may 

4 


74  NATHALE. 

be ;  we  may  also  regret  to  be  misunderstood,  by  our  own  rela 
tives  especially,  but  we  really  cannot  help  it."' 

"  I  never  meant — "  beaian  Aunt  Radeo;onde,  looliinsj  flup 
ried. 

"  Pray,  do  not  mention  it ;  it  is  quite  immaterial,"  kindly 
interrupted  Madame  Marceau.  And  having  thus  put  down 
her  aunt  she  turned  towards  Nathalie,  asked  how  she  had  liked 
the  garden  :  was  sure  she  would  like  the  grounds ;  informed 
her  that  the  domain  of  Sainville  was  mueh  admired,  and  hoped 
to  have  many  pleasant  walks  over  it  with  Mademoiselle  Mon- 
tolieu.  The  Canoness  joined  in  the  hope,  and  looked  at  her 
niece,  who  looked  at  the  wall.  But  Aunt  Radegonde,  who 
seemed  anxious  to  be  restored  to  favor,  persisted. 

•'  Yes,"  she  said.  "  we  shall  have  many  pleasant  walks,  all 
three,  or  rather  all  four  together ;  for  Armand  will  accompany 
us,  and  he  talks  so  well !  Ah  !  Petite,  you  should  hear  him 
and  his  sister,  sometimes  !" 

"  My  brother  is  indeed  a  man  of  varied  acquirements,"  con- 
descended to  observe  Madame  Marceau,  without,  however, 
looking  at  her  aunt.  "  I  regret  that  he  should  be  gone  to  Mar- 
mont ;  but  he  is  to  be  home  at  five.  I  have  no  doubt  he  will 
be  greatly  pleased  to  become  acquainted  with  Mademoiselle 
Montolieu." 

"  How  long  is  this  to  last?"  impatiently  thought  Nathalie, 
who  began  to  feel  heartily  wearied  of  Madame  Marceau's  pro- 
tecting grandeur  and  strained  courtesy. 

It  lasted  the  whole  day,  which  appeared  to  the  young  girl 
one  of  the  longest  she  had  ever  spent.  Madame  Marceau  was 
not  one  of  those  talkers  who  tire  out  by  their  inexhaustible 
volubility  ;  her  language  was  not  trite,  common-place,  or  ridi- 
culous ;  but  she  had  a  way  of  spreading  out  her  wealth,  her 
state,  her  lineage,  as  if  these  were  to  be  worn  at  full  length, 
like  the  robe  and  ample  train  of  her  grandmother.  The  little 
she  said — for  she  did  not  speak  much — was  all  on  the  theme, 
more  implied,  however,  than  expressed,  of  her  greatness.  If 
Nathalie  looked  out  of  the  window  and  admired  the  fine  ave- 
nue of  trees  leading  to  the  chateau,  she  was  told  of  how  many 
centuries  was  their  growth,  and  by  which  of  the  Sainvilles  they 
had  been  planted  ;  if  she  glanced  at  a  picture,  she  was  inform- 
ed how  long  it  had  been  in  the  family,  or  if  it  was  a  portrait, 
which  of  the  Sainvilles  it  represented.  In  short,  the  past  and 
present  glory  of  the  Sainville  race  evidently  reigned  supreme 
ui  the  lady's  thought.     Aunt  Radegoade  knitted  assiduously 


NATHALIE,  75 

and  spoke  very  little.  She  did  indeed  let  out  one  or  two  in- 
discreet observations,  but  a  look,  and  a  '•  dear  aunt/'  from  her 
niece  silenced  her  eftectually. 

"  What  a  cheerless  day !"  she  observed  towards  evening, 
and  she  laid  down  her  knitting  with  a  slight  yawn. 

"  Very  cheerless  indeed,"  said  Nathalie  ;  and  glad  of  some 
excuse  to  leave  her  seat,  she  rose  and  went  up  to  one  .of  the 
large  and  deep  windows  that  looked  on  the  avenue. 

It  had  been  raining  all  the  afternoon,  and  it  was  raining 
still.  The  sky  was  dark,  dreary,  and  obscured  by  gloomy 
clouds  that  cliased  each  other  rapidly  along.  Gusts  of  wind 
bowed  the  tall  trees  of  the  avenue,  and  the  winding  road  and 
landscape  beyond  it  could  be  seen  only  through  the  torrents  of 
slanting  rain. 

"  What  dreadful  weather  Armand  has  for  his  ride  home," 
observed  Madame  Marceau,  in  a  tone  of  concern. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  not  come,"  said  the  Canoness. 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  replied  her  niece,  in  her  sententious  way, 
"  we  never  break  a  promise  ;  Armand  left  word  that  he  would 
be  home  at  five,  and  at  five  we  must  expect  him.  As  for  the 
weatlier,  he  has  been  so  great  a  traveller  that  I  really  think  he 
ft- 3ls  indifferent  to  it." 

No  more  was  said  until  the  clock  struck  five. 

'•  That  is  strange  !"  said  Madame  Marceau, with  stately  sur- 
prise. 

"  Chere  Petite,"  observed  Aunt  Eadegonde  turning  towards 
N-'ihalie,  "you  will  take  cold  near  that  window." 

"  I  am  only  looking  at  the  clouds,"  carelessly  replied  Na- 
thalie ;  "  they  run  along  the  sky  so  fast  that  they  look  like  liv- 
ing things." 

She  lingered  a  while  longer  near  the  window,  before  resum- 
ing be-  seat  by  the  Canoness. 

"  Oh  !  there  comes  Monsieur  de  Sainville,"  said  Madame 
Marceau,  as  the  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs  was  heard  in  the  ave- 
nue below.  She  looked  at  the  clock  impatiently,  and  when  a 
few  minutes  had  elapsed,  left  the  room.  There  was  a  brief 
silence, 

"  You  willspoil  your  sightwith  that  embroidery  ;  there  is  no 
light,"  at  length  observed  the  Canoness.  addressing  Nathalie, 
whose  glance  seemed  rivetted  to  her  work. 

•'  Thai\k  you,  I  am  used  to  it,"  she  replied  in  a  low  and 
somewhat  flurried  tone.  A  step  was  heard  on  the  staircase : 
she  laid  down  lier  work  on  her  lap,  then  took  it  up  again  nei'- 
vouslv. 


7Q  NATHALIE. 

The  door  opened,  and  Madame  Marceau  eutered  alone.  Her 
Drew  seemed  slightly  overcast. 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  said  ehe,  addressing  the  young 
girl  in  a  tone  ■which  sounded  sharp  and  irritated,  through  all 
its  softness  and  courtesy,  "  my  brother  is  very  anxious  to  see 
you.     Would  you  mind  accompanying  me  to  the  library." 

Nathalie  rose  in  some  trepidation. 

'•  Where  are  you  taking  her?"  asked  the  Canoness, 

"  Armand  wishes  to  speak  to  Mademoiselle  Montolieu." 

"  What  does  he  want  with  her  ?"  pettishly  inquired  Aunt 
lladegonde. 

"  My  brother.  Monsieur  de  Salnville,  wishes  to  speak  to 
Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  his  guest,"  replied  Madame  Marceau, 
drawing  Nathalie's  arm  within  her  own,  and  speaking  with  one 
of  her  grand  airs. 

"  He  could  speak  to  her  here,"  returned  the  Canoness,  who 
could  be  pertinacious  enough  when  she  chose  ;  "and  I  do  not 
see  why  he  will  have  her  in  the  library — unless  it  be  to  scare 
her,  as  he  scares  every  one,"  she  added,  under  her  breath. 

Madame  Marceau  gave  her  aunt  a  look,  which  made  the 
little  Canoness  fidget  in  her  chair. 

'•  lleally,  dear  aunt,"  said  she  with  an  affected  gayety,  that 
was  intended  to  conceal  a  good  deal  of  irritation,  "one  might 
think  I  was  leading  our  young  friend  to  the  anh-e  of  some 
ogre.  Fortunately,"  she  added,  with  a  keen  look  at  Nathali«, 
"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  does  not  share  your  apprehensions." 

The  Canoness  looked  corrected  and  penitent,  and  did  not 
venture  to  breathe  another  syllable,  as  the  two  ladies  left  tho 
room. 

"  I  suppose,"  thought  Nathalie,  as  they  silently  proceeded 
towards  the  library,  "  that  Monsieur  de  Sainville  is  a  second 
edition  of  his  sister, — a  tall,  fine  man,  very  stately,  very  court- 
eous, and  very  patronizing." 

She  glanced  at  her  companion  as  she  came  to  this  conclu- 
sion, and  the  lowering  expression  of  Madame  Marceau's  brow 
led  her  to  believe  that  this  interview  was  little  to  the  lady's 
taste. 

The  library  was  situated  on  the  ground-floor,  and  the 
entrance  to  it  faced  the  door  leading  to  the  dining-room.  It 
was  soon  reached ;  and  as  Madame  Marceau's  hand  rested  on 
the  bronze  door-handle,  Nathalie  felt  the  mingled  shyness  and 
curiosity  of  her  years  blending  with  a  disagreeable  feeling  of 
uneasiness,  caused   by  the   prospect  of  meeting  one  of  whom. 


VATIIAME. 


77 


whether  rightfully  or  not,  she  had  not  been  led  to  conceive  a 
very  favorable  opinion.  Ilcr  companion  smiled,  and  gave  her 
an  encouraging  look. 

'•  Pray,  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  said  she,  in  a  low  and 
emphatic  tone,  "do  not  feel  any  uneasines.s.  We  arc  your 
friends  ;  we  mean  you  well." 

She  pressed  her  hand,  and  opened  the  door  as  she  apohe. 

The  library  was  a  wide  apartment  very  simply  furnished,  with 
shelves  of  books,  busts,  and  a  few  picture  ?.  A  vase  filled  with 
choice  flowers  stood  on  a  large  table  covered  with  papers ;  near  it 
burned  a  lamp  with  a  cleari'cheerful  light.  A  large  glass  door 
revealed  the  garden  beyond,  with  its  distant  trees  now  bending 
before  the  autumn  blast ;  in  the  dark  sky  above  already  shone 
a  pale  and  watery  moon,  ever  and  anon  obscured  by  passing 
clouds.  The  dreary  aspect  of  nature  heightened  the  air  of 
warmth  and  comfort  of  every  thing  within. 

As  the  two  ladies  entered,  a  gentleman,  who  was  standing 
near  the  fire-place,  turned  round  and  advanced  to  receive  them. 
Madame  Marceau  walked  up  to  him,  leading  Nathalie  by  the 
hand,  and  addressing  him  as  her  "dear  Armand,"  introduced 
her  companion  to  him.  with  great  statelincss.  She  then  caused 
Nathalie  to  be  seated,  stood  by  her  chair,  uttering  in  lier 
smooth  tones  a  few  common-place  remarks,  framed  a  plausible 
excuse,  and  retired,  leaving  the  young  girl  alone  with  her 
brother. 

"  This  is  very  childish,"  thought  Nathalie,  as  she  felt  her 
heart  beating  rapidly  and  her  cheeks  gradually  covering  over 
with  a  crimson  flush ;  and  she  found  her  emotion  tlie  more  in- 
excusable that  a  look  had  told  her  there  was  nothing  so  singu- 
lar in  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  appearance  as  to  excite  feelings 
of  uneasiness  or  alarm. 

The  master  of  Sainvillo  did  not  in  the  least  fulfil  the  idea 
which,  from  the  distant  glimpses  she  had  formerly  obtained  of 
him.  and  still  more  from  her  own  recent  conjectures,  the  young 
girl  had  formed  of  his  appearance.  She  had  thought  to  find 
a  tall,  dark  man.  sallow,  harsh-featured,  rather  handsome,  but 
of  a  severe,  forbidding  aspect,  and  long  past  middle  ago.  But 
as  he  stood  by  tlie  table,  near  which  she  sat,  eyeing  her  witli  a 
,]uict  yet  penetrating  glance,  speaking  in  a  rich,  harmonious 
voice,  which  seemed  the  gift  of  the  family,  and  addressing  her 
with  that  indescribable  French  case  which  in  his  ease  was 
united  to  great  simplicity  of  manner,  she  was  compelled  to 
confess  that  nothinc:  could   bo   more  different  from  what  sho 


78  NATUALIt:., 

had  anticipated  or  imagined, — nothing  especially  more  opi^osed 
to  the  showy  but  unpleasing  Madame  Marceau. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  not  much  above  the  usual  height, 
and  of  a  spare  figure,  in  which  there  was  nothing  to  strike  the 
eye.  Still  less  did  his  countenance  seem  likely  to  attract 
attention  ;  it  was  neither  plain  nor  handsome ;  Nathalie  was 
surprised  at  seeing  only  a  serious  face,  intellectual  indeed,  but 
pale  and  mild,  and  still  further  softened  by  hair  of  a  light 
chestnut,  and  a  slight  moustache  of  the  same  hue.  Without 
being  young,  he  was  still  in  the  prime  and  vigor  of  life,  and 
evidently  much  younger  than  his  sister. 

"  And  is  this  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ?"  thought  Nathalie, 
looking  at  him  again  with  inward  disappointment.  Yet  this 
second  glance,  though  it  beheld  no  more  than  the  first,  im- 
pressed her  very  differently. 

There  was  something  in  the  settled  pallor  of  the  features, 
in  the  breadth  and  calmness  of  the  brow,  in  the  clear  glance 
of  the  dark-blue  eyes,  in  the  decisive  arch  of  the  nose,  in  the 
firmly-compressed  lips  and  curved  chin,  and  above  all,  in  the 
well-defined  though  not  harsh  outlines  of  the  whole  counte- 
nance, which  no  longer  gave  Nathalie  the  idea  of  gentleness. 
The  mild  expression  which  had  first  struck  her,  now  resembled 
more  a  settled  and  unruffled  calm,  the  result,  perhaps,  of  a  dis- 
position serene  by  nature,  and  not  easily  disturbed  by  outward 
events,  or,  as  she  felt  more  inclined  to  think,  the  only  external 
sign  of  a  strong  and  silent  will  at  rest.  The  whole  face  forci- 
bly reminded  her  of  a  medallion  of  Bonaparte  in  her  possession ; 
not  in  beauty,  for  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  by  no  means 
handsome ;  not  in  the  cast  of  the  features,  for  his  were  essen- 
tially northern ;  but  in  innate  power  and  marble-like  repose. 
Indeed  that  countenance,  which  had  at  first  seemed  so  quiet  in 
character,  now  looked  to  Nathalie  fraught  with  meaning,  but 
with  a  meaning  she  vain'y  sought  to  read.  She  looked  and 
felt  baffled ;  like  one  who  beholds  an  inscription  engraved  in 
unknown  cliai-acters  on  a  stone  tablet;  it  is  there  visible,  in- 
deed, to  the  eye,  but  inscrutable  to  thought,  and  though  seen, 
not  the  less  a  mystery. 

YvHiilst  these  thoughts  passed  rapidly  through  the  young 
girl's  mind,  her  host  continued  to  address  her;  he  was  regret- 
ting, in  courteous  speech,  the  business  which  had  prevented 
him  from  meeting  her  sooner.  To  her  surprise,  he  was  quite 
aware  of  her  parentage,  and  mentioned  her  father,  whom  he 
remembered,  in  terms  of  respect  and  esteem,  that  gratified  her 


NATHALIE.  79 

deeply.  Indeed  he  seemed  bent  ou  placing  her  at  hei'  ease 
When  he  had  succeeded  in  dispelling  her  first  embarrassment 
he  gradually  dropped  into  a  more  business-like  manner,  polite 
still,  but  which,  as  Nathalie  felt,  was  destined  to  lead  them  to 
the  real  object  of  this  interview. 

"  Apologies  are  weak,"  said  he,  addressing  her  with  grave 
earnestness,  "  yet  I  must  apologize — I  must  express  my  deep 
regret  for  what  has  happened.  Until  yesterday  evenitg  I  lit- 
tle suspected  that  you  had  been  subjected  to  annoyance  from 
a,  member  of  my  family ;  I  should  still  be  as  ignorant,  had  I 
not  met  my  nephew,  as  he  left  Mademoiselle  Dantin's  garden. 
To  Madame  Mareeau,  his  mother,  and  my  sister,  I  entrusted, 
as  was  most  fitting,  the  task  of  relieving  you  from  an  unplea- 
sant and  unmerited  position.  I  know  this  is  a  delicate  sub- 
ject— perhaps  I  ought  to  leave  it  wholly  to  JIadame  Mareeau  ; 
but  I  have  a  principle,  from  which  I  do  not  lightly  swerve, 
always  to  do  that  myself  which  I  can  really  do.  If  I  allude, 
however,  to  these  circumstances,  it  is,  in  the  first  place,  to  as- 
sure you  of  my  sorrow  at  the  disagreeable  consec[uences  of 
my  nephew's  imprudence ;  in  the  second,  to  hope  that  you 
will  be  so  good  as  to  consider  this  house  your  home,  until  a 
niore  eligible  one  oifers  for  your  acceptance.'" 

He  spoke  in  a  brief,  business-like  tone,  yet  with  a  quiet 
simplicity,  evidently  meant  to  dispel  every  sense  of  oblig^ation. 
Nathalie  did  not  the  less  feel  bound  to  thank  him  ;  he  quick- 
ly interrupted  her. 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  politely  still,  but  quite  decisively,  '•  so 
commonplace  an  act  of  duty  requires  no  acknowledgments." 

Nathalie  made  no  reply.  A  short,  eml^arrassed  pause  suc- 
ceeded. Monsieur  de  Sainville  seemed  to  wish  to  say  some- 
thing more,  yet  he  remained  silent ;  he  left  his  place,  returned 
to  it  again,  jjut  did  not  speak.  Nathalie  felt  intuitively  that 
he  was  looking  at  her.  She  glanced  up — it  was  so ;  but 
though  his  look  was  both  fixed  and  thoughtful,  it  caused,  her 
no  embarrassment :  this  protracted  silence  became,  however, 
Bomewhat  awkward. 

"  I  fear,  sir,"  said  she,  half  rising  from  her  scat,  '-that  I  am 
intruding  on  3'our  leisure." 

"  No,  no,"  he  quickly  replied.  '•  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  he 
fedded,  more  leisurely,  "  our  conversation  is  not  yet  ended." 

Nathalie  felt  and  looked  uneasy. 

'•Some  matters,"  he  resumed,  in  his  business-like  way, 
"'require  frankness;  it  is  then — as,  indeed,  it  almost  always  is 


BO  NATHALIE. 

--the  most  honorable,  the  most  easy  course  to  pursue.  1  should 
not  have  troubled  you  to  come  here,  Mademoiselle  Montolieu, 
since  I  could  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  in  the  pres- 
ence of  my  aunt  and  sister,  had  I  not  felt  myself  bound  to 
communicate  to  you  certain  facts  which  you  probably  do  not 
know,  but  which  you  certainly  ought  to  know.  But  first  I  must 
assure  you  that  over  my  nephew  and  his  feelings  I  claim  not 
the  least  authority.  You  will  therefore  understand  that,  so  far 
as  ho  is  concerned,  I  do  not  seek,  I  do  not  wish  to  interfere. 
Nor  do  I  presume  to  inquire  into  your  private  feelings  ;  I  only 
feel  that  you  are  my  guest,  that  it  is  my  duty  not  to  allow  you 
to  be  deceived,  even  indirectly.  All  I  wish  to  state  is,  that 
my  sister  has  for  some  time  planned  a  marriage  between  her 
son  and  a  friend  of  hers.  Mademoiselle  de  Jussac ;  that  after 
agreeing,  he  has  now  refused  to  marry  that  lady,  and  that  his 
mother  has  declared  she  will  never  give  her  consent — with 
which  the  law  will  not  yet  allow  him  to  dispense — to  his  mar- 
riage with  any  other  woman.  She  is  determined  not  to  yield, 
and  so  is  he,  for  they  are  much  alike  in  person  and  in  temper ; 
if  he  has,  therefore,  deceived  himself,  so  far  as  to  state  the  con- 
trary to  you,  believe  me  he  is 'wholly  mistaken.  My  perfect 
knowledge  of  this,  the  advantage  I  have  over  you  in  years 
and  experience,  my  position  as  your  host,  entitle  me,  perhaps, 
to  consider  myself  as  standing  towards  you,  for  some  time  at 
least,  in  the  relation  of  guardian  and  a  friend.  I  have  there- 
fore entered  into  these  explanations,  iu  order  that  you  may 
know  how  to  guide  your  actions.  You  can  now  weigh  the 
exact  cost  of  what,  at  your  age,  is  called  the  happiness  of  life, 
of  what  is  often  only  the  dream  of  a  day.  You  will  have  time 
to  discriminate  the  caprice  of  youth  from  its  sincere  feeling. 
If  you  doubt,  you  can  easily  look  on  the  past  as  null ;  if  your 
faith  is  strong,  you  can  wait,  and  refuse  to  let  any  authority, 
any  human  being  stand  between  your  feelings  and  you." 

He  ceased.  Nathalie  had  heard  him  in  profound  silence. 
Reclining  back  in  her  chair,  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her 
knees,  and  her  eyes  fastened  on  the  floor,  she  had  remained  as 
motionless  as  a  statue.  But  her  color,  which  came  and  went, 
and  the  irrepressible  working  of  her  features,  showed  that  this 
calmness  Avas  only  apparent.  Yet  when  she  looked  up,  and 
met  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  eye  with  a  glance  as  clear  and 
steady,  though  not  so  calm  as  his  own,  and  when,  after  a  brief 
pause,  she  answered  him,  there  was  in  her  whole  bearing  a 
?oinpo3ure    and    feminine    dignity  she   seldom  displayed,  and 


NATHALIE.  8t 

wliioli  were  perhaps  drawn  forth  by  the  presence  of  a  stranger, 
not  of  her  own  sex,  perhaps  also  by  the  quiet,  business-like 
manner  in  which  she  had  been  addressed. 

■'  Sir,"  said  she,  calmly,  "you  mean  well, — kindly,  I  should 
say,  and  I  thank  you  sincerely  ;  but  allow  me  to  observe,  that 
this  advice,  however  excellent — that  these  explanations,  how- 
ever clear, — were  both  unnecessary  in  my  case.  That  Mad- 
ame Marceau  should  wish  to  marry  her  son  tn  a  lady,  and  that 
he  should  refuse  to  marry  that  lady,  are  family  matters  of  no 
moment  to  me." 

Her  color  deepened,  and  her  eyes  kindled  with  rising  pride, 
as  she  concluded.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  gave  her  a  look  as 
searching  as  it  was  brief 

"  Indeed,"  said  he,  slowly ;  then  I  confess  I  no  longer 
understand  in  what  relation  you  stand  towards  my  nephew." 

"  In  none  whatever,"  she  replied,  with  laconic  haughtiness. 
"  Monsieur  Marceau's  attentions  were  never  encouraged  by  me  ; 
yet  he  presumed  so  far  as  to  write  to  me,  asking  for  a  favorable 
reply." 

'•Did  you  give  him  any  reply?"  quietly  asked  Monsieur  de 
Sainville. 

"  No  !  sir,"  sharply  answered  Nathalie ;  "  but  desirous,  I 
suppose,  of  exacting  an  answer.  Monsieur  Marceau  found 
means  of  entering  the  garden  of  the  school.  I  was  requesting 
him  to  retire,  when  Mademoiselle  Dantin  came  up." 

Monsieur  de  Sainville's  calm  countenance  assumed  a  pecu- 
liar expression  :  it  was  not  anger,  nor  yet  scorn,  but  something 
between  both.  It  lasted  for  a  moment  only  ;  it  had  vanislied 
when  he  raised  his  look  towards  Nathalie,  and  said,  somewhat 
briefly : 

"  And  this  was  all." 

He  spoke  more  as  if  announcing  a  fact  than  as  if  putting  a 
question.  But  Nathalie  felt  that  her  silence  might  be  construed 
into  assent ;  she  hesitated,  and  looked  embarrassed,  conscious 
of  his  fixed  and  scrutinizing  gaze. 

"  Sir,"  she  said  at  length,  "  I  do  not  wish  to  leave  you 
under  a  false  impression  :  in  one  sense  this  is  not  all,  for  I  met 
Monsieur  Marceau  in  the  garden  of  this  house,  this  morning, 
by  chance." 

'•  By  chance  !"  incredulously  echoed  Monsieur  de  Saniville. 

"  By  chance  on  my  part,  at  least,"  she  warmly  replied. 

Monsieur  do  Sainville  ej'ed  her  quietly,  whilst  a  subdued 
4* 


82  NAT  HAL tE. 

smile,  which  annoyed  Nathalie  more  than  his  supposed  insina 
ation,  played  for  a  moment  around  his  severe  mouth. 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  he,  "  that  I  never  meant  to  hint  any 
thing  likely  to  wound  your  delicacy  ;  but  that  this  meeting 
was  accidental  I  cannot  believe.  I  regret  that  even  here  you 
should  not  have  been  free  from  annoyance.  I  shall  see,"  ho 
added  with  a  slight  frown,  "  that  it  occurs  not  again." 

"  I  believe,"  observed  Nathalie,  with  some  hesitation, 
"  that  Monsieur  Marceau  wished  to  apologize." 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  smiled  again. 

"  Permit  me  to  doubt,"  said  he  quietly,  "  that  your  accept- 
ance of  an  apology  was  the  only  result  he  hoped  from  this  in- 
terview." 

"  Which  had  no  other  result,  sir,"  rejoined  Nathalie  in  a 
quick,. nettled  tone. 

"  Nor  did  I  imply  that  it  had,"  he  calmly  answered. 

Still  Nathalie  felt  anxious  to  explain. 

"  It  had  not  even  that  result,  having  lasted  only  a  few  min- 
utes. Indeed,  Monsieur  Marceau  left  me  in  a  fit  of  pique,  be- 
cause," she  added,  coloring,  as  she  felt  this  explanation  had 
been  unsolicited,  and  was  perhaps  unneeded,  "  because,  in 
short,  I  did  not  sympathize  with  that  which  I  really  could  not 
understand." 

Monsieur  de   Sainville  stroked  his  chin,  and  looked  down. 

"T  regret,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "  having  labored  under  an 
impression  which  has  evidently  been  disagreeable  to  you ;  but 
the  truth  is,  I  plainly  understood  that  the  only  obstacle  to  my 
nej)hew's  attachment  rested  with  his  mother." 

Indignant  amazement  kept  Nathalie  silent  for  a  few  secoixls, 
during  which  her  color  deepened,  xmtil  it  covered  her  features 
with  a  burning  glow. 

"  He  said  so — he  dared  to  say  so  !"  she  passionately  exclaim- 
ed ;  but  tears  of  anger  and  shame  rose  to  her  eyes,  her  lips 
trembled,  and  she  could  say  no  more. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  waited  for  several  minutes,  during 
which  he  allowed  Nathalie's  excitement  to  subside,  and  watched 
her  attentively. 

"  I  should  regret  this  frankness,"  he  said  at  length,  '-did  I 
not  feel  you  have  a  right  to  know  the  truth." 

He  spoke  with  emphasis.  Nathalie  turned  towards  him. 
looking,  as  she  felt, — touched,  and  grateful. 

"  You  have  been  kind,  sir,"  said  she,  with  that  spontaneous- 
noss  which  is  so  well  expressed  by  the  untranslatable  French 
word  effusion^  "  very  kind  ;  I  thank  you  truly." 


NATHALIE.  83 

'^  Are  you  quite  sure  of  that  ?"  said  he  eyeing  her  compos- 
edly ;  "  because,  he  continued,  answering  her  quick,  startled 
look,  "  your  countenance  is  more  frank  than  you  imagine  ;  its 
meaning,  if  I  read  it  rightly  a  while  ago,  was  that  the  spirit  of 
my  observations  was  far  from  being  acceptable  to  you.  Now  I 
assure  you  that  I  was  not  actuated  by  the  indiscreet  wish  of 
ascertaining  anything  you  might  think  fit  to  conceal,  but  by  the 
simple  desire  of  doing  you  justice  ;  for,  indeed,"  he  continued, 
after  a  brief  pause,  "  I  may  say  that  the  manner  in  which  you 
listened  to  the  explanations  I  then  thought  myself  justified  in 
offering,  -had  already  convinced  me  of  that  which  your  words 
have  confirmed  ;  namely,  that  my  nephew  had  mistaken  his  own 
hopes  for  your  acquiescence." 

There  was  something  in  this  speech  that  jarred  on  Nathalie's 
ear.  She  fancied,  in  her  sensitive  pride,  that  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
villc  was  i  bo  much  pleased  at  there  being  no  tie  between  hi? 
nephew  and  herself  Desirous  of  showing  him  that  she  was 
quite  as  ready  and  anxious  as  he  could  be  to  repudiate  the  idea, 
she  said,  somewhat  proudly  : 

'•  May  I  ask,  sir,  if  Madame  Marceau  labors  under  this  im- 
pression ?" 

"  It  shall  be  my  care  to  undeceive  her,"  he  briefly  replied. 

'•  But.  sir,"  continued  Nathalie, "  I  beirin  to  feel  doubts  as  to 
the  propriety  of  accepting  even  your  kind  offer." 

"  Why  so  ?"  he  composedly  inquired. 

"  I  feel  as  if  my  presence  here  could  scarcely  be  agree- 
able." 

"  And  pray  how  can  this  be  ?"    he  asked,  with  a  smile. 

"  Madame  Marceau  will  perhaps  be  reminded — I  mean  to  say 
-  -indeed,  I  should  not  like  to  be  the  cause " 

She  stopped  short,  bit  her  lip,  and  looked  vexed  at  having 
begun  that  which  it  was  not  quite  easy  for  her  to  conclude. 

There  was  a  pause,  for  Monsieur  de  Sainville  took  his  time 
to  observe,  with  that  smile,  half  kindly,  half  ironical,  which  had 
already  annoyed  the  young  girl : 

"  I  believe  you  allude  to  my  nephew ;  but  he  is  now  pre- 
cisely where  it  is  best  for  him  to  be — in  Paris,  prosecuting  hia 
legal  studies.     If  he  is  wise,  he  will  remain  there." 

Still  Nathalie  seemed  willing  to  raise  some  objection.  Mon- 
fiieur  de  Sainville  anticipated  her. 

"  Believe  me,"  said  he,  gravely,  "  it  shall  be  my  care  that 
nothing  or  no  one  annoys  you  under  this  roof" 

He  said  not  in  plain  speech  "  this  is  my  house,  and  you  are 


84  NATHALIE. 

my  guest;"  but  his  look  and  mauuer  implied  it;  and  Nathalie 
felt  a  strange  mixture  of  pleasure  and  embarrassment  to  think 
that  it  was  so.  She  felt  that  there  was  kindness  in  that  calm 
face,  which  now  looked  down  upon  her,  a  kindness  she  knew 
not  how  to  acknowledge. 

She  was  little  aware  that  there  was  no  need  of  acknowledg- 
ment ;  that  the  most  finished  and  graceful  thanks  would  not 
have  been  so  expressive  as  the  look,  half  shy,  half  confident, 
which  she  now  turned  towards  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ;  for  the 
charm  of  the  ingenuous  embarrassment  of  youth  is  seldom  lost 
on  those  of  maturer  years,  nor  did  it  seem  to  be  lost  on  him, 
as  he  eyed  the  young  girl  with  a  sedate,  thoughtful  glance  ;  and 
though  he  did  not  smile  now,  his  grave  features  were  softened 
and  relaxed.  Nathalie  felt  intuitively  that  the  interview  had 
lasted  long  enough,  and  she  rose  from  her  seat. 

"  I  am  sure,  sir,  that  you  are  very  kind,"  said  she,  hesitat- 
ingly, and  coloring  at  the  earnest  tone,  as  well  as  at  the  home- 
liness of  the  compliment ;  "  and  I  feel  truly  grateful,"  she  add- 
ed, after  a  pause. 

Perhaps  as  she  said  this,  her  manner  became  constrained, 
or  it  may  be  that  the  last  word  broke  the  charm  ;  for  as  it  was 
uttered.  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  countenance  suddenly  altered 
back  to  the  old  expression. 

"  Pi'ay  let  there  be  no  undue  sense  of  obligation,"  said  he, 
with  his  cold  politeness  ;  and,  perceiving  her  wish  to  depart,  he 
led  her  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER    VII. 


"  So  tins  is  Monsieur  de  Sainville,"  thought  Nathalie,  as  she 
closed  the  door  of  tlie  library  behind  her  and  walked  up  stairs. 

She  felt  disappointed ;  for  there  was  nothing,  as  she  had 
expected  there  would  be,  singular  in  her  host.  She  also  felt 
chilled  and  repelled.  At  first  she  thought  this  was  because  he 
had  questioned  her  too  closely.  On  reflection  she  perceived 
that  he  had  put  only  one  question  to  her;  what  she  had  said 
had  been  mentioned  of  her  own  accord.  With  haughty  sur- 
prise she  now  asked  herself  why'?  Had  his  frankness  been 
Buch  as  to  win  frankness  in  return?     Nay,  for  he  had  told  her 


exactly  what  he  had  wished  to  mention  from  the  first ;  not  one 
word  more.  He  had  laid  facts  before  her,  without  comment 
without  advice,  without  giving  her  any  clue  to  his  own  feelings. 
How  he  felt  with  regard  to  his  nephew's  conduct,  how  he  would 
view  an  engagement  between  Charles  Marceau  and  herself, 
were  matters  of  which  she  was  as  ignorant  now  as  before  she 
entered  the  library.  She  had  said  much,  but  had  learned 
nothing  save  that  the  providential  interference  of  which 
Madame  Marceau  had  so  freely  taken  the  merit,  was  in  reality 
attributable  to  her  brother,  a  gentleman  serious  in  aspect,  in 
manner  calm,  if  not  cold.  She  wondered  if  he  was  always  so, 
and  if  this  was  all.  The  Canoness  and  her  niece  were  both  in 
the  drawing-room,  when  she  entered  it,  and  both  looked  at  her 
with  evident  curiosity.  She  silently  sat  down  by  thearm-chai? 
of  the  elder  lady. 

"  You  see,  aunt,"  observed  Madame  Marceau,  with  an  as- 
sumed gayety,  that  did  not  in  Nathalie's  opinion  become  her 
quite  so  well  as  the  airs  de  grande  dame  she  so  often  took ; 
"  you  see  that  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  has  come  back  to  us 
safe  and  not  looking  scared." 

"  Oh  !  no ;  not  yet,"  shortly  answered  the  Canoness. 

"  Which  implies  that  she  will  be  so  one  day.  What  is 
Mademoiselle  Montolieu's  own  opinion?" 

She  bant  an  inquiring  glance  on  the  young  girl  as  she 
spoke ;  but  Nathalie  was  not  inexpert  in  the  little  femiuino 
manceuvre  of  eluding  a  question :  she  replied,  with  a  smile  : 
"  Mademoiselle  Dantin  never  could  scare  me,  madamc,  from 
which  I  conclude  I  am  invulnerable." 

No  more  was  said  on  the  subject. 

When  dinner-time  came,  it  was  Nathalie  who  helped  tho 
Canoness  down  stairs :  for  though  she  never  confessed  it,  Aunt 
lladegonde  was  somewhat  infirm. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  already  in  the  dining-room ;  he 
had  not  seen  his  aunt  that  day,  and  as  she  entered  leaning  on 
Nathalie's  arm,  he  came  up  to  her  and  kissed  the  little  hand, 
still  white  and  delicate,  which  she  extended  towards  him ;  she 
received  this  courtesy  with  cool  dignity,  merely  observing : 

"  You  had  bad  weather  for  your  ride  home,  Armand." 

''  It  was  rather  wet,"  he  coolly  replied. 

"  Rather  wet  !"  thought  Nathalie,  who  could  hear  the  rain 
still  pouring  down  in  torrents. 

"And  a  little  windy,"  he  added  as  a  keen  blast  rushed  up 
the  avenue  and  swept  round  the  old  chateau,  dying  away  witb 
a  moaning  sound. 


86  NATHALIE. 

''I  wundel'  what  be  considers  really  wet  and  windy  weather," 
inwardly  pursued  Nathalie,  who  had  all  the  asperity  of  a  chill/ 
southern  against  the  dreary  north. 

"  But  it  was  not  too  wet  for  poor  Andre  to  go,"  dryly  ob- 
served Aunt  Radegonde,  as  her  nephew  led  her  to  the  table. 

'•  Oh  !  he  is  gone  then  !"  said  he  quietly. 

"  Yes.  and  I  think  it  a  great  pity,"  she  observed,  drawing 
herself  up  very  decisively. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  made  no  reply. 

"A  great  pity  for  his  family,"  said  the  Canoness,  with 
slight  hesitation.  "  Did  you  speak,  Armand  ?"  she  added  after 
a  pause. 

'•  No  aunt,  but  I  agree  with  you :   it  is  a  pity." 

"  He  is  hard,"  thought  Nathalie,  half  indignantly. 

The  meal  was  formal  and  silent.  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
spoke  little  ;  Madame  Marceau  seemed  enveloped  in  her  own 
dignity ;  the  Canoness  was  mute.  But  when  dessert  was 
brought  up  and  the  servants  had  retired,  she  turned  towards 
!ier  nephew,  near  whom  she  sat,  suddenly  observing : 

"  Armand,  why  did  you  dismiss  that  poor  Andre  ?" 

'•  For  neglect  of  my  orders,  aunt." 

'•  Because,  you  see,"  she  continued,  in  a  half  apologetic  tone, 
as  if  willing  to  explain  her  abrupt  inquiry,  "  I  know  the  man 
to  be  so  sober,  honest,  and  industrious  ;  at  least,  I  think  so," 
she  added,  gradually  shrinking,  like  many  an  advocate,  from 
the  cause  of  her  protege. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  aunt,"  quietly  said  Monsieur  de 
Sainville,  "Andre  is  all  that." 

"  Then,  why  dismiss  him  ?"  asked  the  Canoness  once  more, 
quite  confident. 

"  For  neglect  of  my  orders,  aunt,"  he  answered,  exactly  in 
the  same  tone  as  before. 

"  I  understand,"  sagaciously  said  Aunt  Radegonde,  "  it 
was  something  very  important." 

"  Only  a  tree  he  neglected  to  fell,"  carelessly  replied  her 
nephew. 

"  You  dismiss  him  for  that  !" 

"  Not  for  the  order  neglected,  aunt,  but  for  having  neglect- 
ed the  order." 

''  Why  not  tell  him  again  ?" 

"  Because  I  never  keep  servants  to  whom  I  must  repeat  tho 
eame  order  twice.  I  waited  three  days  to  see  whether  he  would 
©r  not  do  as  I  had  told  him,  and  waited  uselessly.     I  paid  him 


NATHALIE.  S? 

about  double  what  1  owed  him  to  get  rid  of  him  at  once.     He 
will  easily  find  another  situation  ;  I  have  done  him  no  wrong." 

'•  Ay,"  said  Radegonde  in  a  low  tone,  "  that  is  how  people 
have  servants  who  never  love  them,  Armand." 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  reclining  back  in  his  chair  with 
folded  arms.  Pie  looked  down  at  his  aunt  and  smiled  a  little 
ironically. 

"  Aunt,"  said  he,  '•  we  pay  servants  to  serve,  and  not  to  love 
us  ;  and  they  serve  us,  not  for  love,  but  for  wages.  There  is 
no  obligation  on  either  side ;  it  is  a  contract,  a  bargain — no 
more.  As  for  explanations  between  master  and  servant,  they 
will  not  do  ;  the  servant  would  only  learn  to  argue,  a  right  he 
has  given  up,  instead  of  obeying  ;  the  master  ,in  speaking  to 
the  hireling,  would  forget  the  man  ;  in  short,  we  should  have 
the  contemptible  and  odious  characters  of  rebel  and  tyrant 
face  to  race  ;  one  of  which  characters  seldom  exists,  indeed, 
unless  in  presence  of  the  other." 

"  Come,"  thought  Nathalie,  "  a  few  more  snch  conversa- 
tions,  and  I  think  I  shall  begin  to  understand  you." 

But  as  she  looked  up,  she  met  the  keen  look  of  Monsieur 
de  Sainville,  opposite  whom  she  sat.  She  remembered  what 
he  had  told  her,  concerning  the  frankness  of  her  face,  and  with 
some  trepidation,  she  resolved  to  be  more  on  her  guard  for  the 
future. 

Madame  Marceau  now  opened  her  lips  in  sententious 
speech. 

"  Authority,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  she,  addressing  the  Can- 
oness,  '•  cannot  be  thus  cast  away.  The  power  to  rule  is  the 
test  of  mind.  But  few,  very  few,"  she  emphatically  added, 
"  possess  that  lofty  power." 

No  one  replied  ;  dinner  was  over.  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
retired  to  the  library ;  the  ladies  went  up  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

Seated  on  her  low  seat,  for  the  place  by  Aunt  Kadegonde 
DOW  seemed  hers,  with  her  work  lying  neglected  on  her  lap, 
her  look  fastened  on  the  burning  embers,  Nathalie  was  lulled 
into  a  reverie,  by  the  mingled  sound  of  wind  and  rain.  She 
was  soon  roused  by  the  Canoness,  who  asked  whether  she 
played  or  sang,  and  eagerly  requested  her  to  sing  something, 
when  with  a  smile  she  replied  that  she  could  do  both.  Ma- 
dame Marceau  declared  she  would  be  charmed  to  hear  her; 
she  spoke  as  if  Nathalie  could  neither  touch  the  rnstruracnt, 
nor  open  her  lips,  without  her  majestic  encouragement. 


ee  NATHALIE. 

Nathalie  rose,  and  silently  seated  herself  before  the  piauo 
her  fingers  wandered  aAvhile  over  the  keys,  as  she  played  the 
prelude  to  a  gay  romance  :  but  something  iu  the  murmurs  of 
this  chill  evening  awoke  the  memory  of  old  times  ;  the  strain 
changed  suddenly,  and  she  sang  an  old  sailor's  hymn  to  the 
Virgin,  which  she  had  often  heard  and  sung  in  her  native  pro- 
vince. The  human  voice  is  the  most  spiritual  expression  of 
music,  that  poetry  of  sense,  and  never  does  it  rise  so  much 
above  Avhat  is  earthly,  as  when  giving  utterance  to  religious 
melody  :  the  voice  of  Nathalie  was  not  of  the  highest  quality 
or  extent,  but  it  was  clear,  flexible,  and  expressive  ;  especially 
on  this  evening,  when  the  memory  of  early  youth,  and  home, 
was  with  her  as  she  sans.  Aunt  Radegonde  was  all  attention, 
with  her  head  thoughtfully  inclined  on  one  side,  and  her  Jcnit- 
ting  at  rest. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  when  the  strain  had  ceased,  "  I  should 
not  have  thought  you  sang  religious  music." 

"  What  sort  of  music  did  you  think  then_I  sang  ?"  promptly 
asked  Nathalie. 

"  Something  like  yourself, — pretty  and  gay." 

"  And  frivolous,"  added  Nathalie  iu  a  nettled  tone.  She 
looked  up  as  she  spoke  from  the  instrument,  and  in  the  large 
mirror  behind  it  she  perceived  the  figure  of  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville,  whose  entrance  she  had  not  heard.  He  was  standing 
near  his  aunt,  and  appeared  to  have  been  listening. 

'•Pray  sing  us  something  else,"  said  the  Canoness. 

"We  shall  be  happy  to  hear  Mademoiselle  Montolieu 
again,"  observed  Madame  Marceau,  with  stately  grace. 

Nathalie  hesitated.  She  wondered  whether  Monsieur  dc 
Saiuville  was  a  judge  of  music,  and  whether  he  would  join  his 
entreaties  to  those  of  his  aunt  and  sister  ;  but  he  remained 
silent,  and  to  all  appearance  uninterested.  After  some  more 
hesitation,  the  young  girl  complied  with  Aunt  Radegonde's 
request ;  she  sang  an  Italian  piece,  and  though  her  voice  was 
at  first  slightly  tremulous,  she  felt  that  she  sang  it  well. 

"  My  dear  child,"  emphatically  said  the  Canoness,  '=  you  are 
a  little  prodigy." 

"Mademoiselle  Montolieu  sings  charmingly,"  observed 
Madame  Marceau. 

Her  brother  said  nothing,  and  as  Nathalie  left  the  instru- 
ment to  resume  her  seat,  he  began  to  walk  slowly  up  and  down 
the  room ;  an  exercise  that  appeared  to  be  customary  to  him. 

To  all  appearance  the  young  girl   was  absorbed  by   hci 


NATHALIE.  S5 

frork,  but  in  truth  lier  thoughts  -were  verj  differently  engaged. 
She  felt  extremely  nettled,  in  sj^ite  of  herself,  at  her  host's  in 
difference. 

'•  How  morose  he  must  be,  not  to  like  music,"  she  thought, 
without  acknowledging  to  herself,  that  it  was  his  want  of  ad- 
miration for  her  music,  that  vexed  her;  "and  Italian  musiq 
too  !  But  how  indeed  could  it  touch  a  northern  icicle  like 
him  ?" 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  stopped  short  as  she  came  to  this 
indignant  conclusion,  with  a  sort  of  coincidence  to  her  thought 
ihat  somewhat  startled  her;  he  said  briefly: 

'•  Do  you  not  come  from  the  south.  Mademoiselle  Mon- 
lolieu?" 

Nathalie  assented. 

"  I  thought  so.  I  was  once  on  the  MediteiTanean  in  a 
storm,  and  all  the  sailors  sang  that  hymn  you  sang  just  now. 
I  had  never  heard  it  since  then." 

He  walked  up  to  the  end  of  the  room,  and  as  he  came  back 
once  more,  he  again  addressed  her  : 

"  May  I  inquire  from  what  part  of  the  south  you  come  1" 

'•  From  Aries,  in  Provence." 

"  Aries  !"  said  the  Canoness,  catching  the  word  ;  •'  Aries," 
she  repeated.  "  Chere  Petite,  what  is  Aries  so  very  celebrated 
for  ?" 

Nathalie  knew,  but  did  not  care  to  say. 

'•  Antiquities,  I  believe,"  observed  Madame  Marceau. 

"  No,  it  is  not  antiquities,"  decisively  said  the  Canoness  ; 
'•  Petite,  you  smile,  I  am  sure  you  know." 

"  We  have  so  many  good  things  at  Aries,"  replied  Nathalie, 
coloring  as  she  caught  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  look  eyeing  her 
keenly  ;  "  excellent  ham,  for  instance." 

"  Petite,  I  am  sure  it  is  not  ham." 

"  Aries  is  celebrated  for  the  beauty  of  its  women,"  quiet- 
ly observed  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ;  '•  they  are  held  to  be  be- 
yond doubt  the  handsomest  women  of  France." 

He  had  paused  for  a  moment,  and  resumed  his  walk  as  he 
concluded. 

'•  There,"  cried  the  Canoness,  with  great  triumph,  -  I  knew 
Aries  was  celebrated  for  something  remarkable.  Armaud,  da 
tell  us  what  these  handsome  women  are  like." 

She  looked  shrewdly  at  Nathalie,  who,  conscious  perhaps 
that  she  was  no  unfair  specimen  of  Arlesian  beauty,  blushed 
deeply  and  bent  over  her  work.  But  there  was  no  need  to 
blush 


90 


NATHALIE. 


_  "  Beauty  must  be  seeu  and  felt, — not  described,"  coldlj 
said  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 

Aunt  Radegonde  looked  disappointed;  Nathalie  felt  slight- 
ed, and  thought  her  host  a  very  disagreeable  man  ;  Madame 
Maneau,  sitting  in  lonely  majesty  on  a  couch  facing  her,  al- 
lowed her  lip  to  curl  with  a  haughty  smile.  Of  all  this,  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville  seemed  to  heed  nothing.  In  passing  by  the 
table  he  had  perceived  and  immediately  taken  up  a  card  lying 
upon  it.  He  read  the  name,  and  looked  at  his  sister  very 
fixedly.  Nathalie  had  seen  that  card  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
aid  been  struck  to  perceive  that  the  name  engraved  upon  it 
was  that  of  Madame  Marceau  de  Sainville,  as  if  the  owner  rs- 
pudiated.  as  much  as  in  her  power  lay,  the  plebeian  alliance, 
and,  despite  of  custom,  claimed  back  the  patrician  name  of 
her  birth.  She  now  watched  her  brother  with  breathless, 
though  stealthy  attention,  as  he  stood  with  the  card  in  his 
hand.     He  laid  it  down  silently  ;  she  looked  triumphant. 

"  Rosalie,"  he  abruptly  asked,  "  was  not  your  husband  re- 
lated to  tliG  celebrated  republican  General  Marceau?" 

"  There  was  a  very  distant  relationship,"  replied  she,  much 
disturbed. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  he  briefly  said  ;  "  our  military  annals 
hold  not'  a  name  more  stainless  or  more  noble ;  for  he,  the 
champion  of  modern  freedom,  the  man  of  to-day,  had  yet  in- 
herited the  soul  of  the  past,  the  spirit  of  truth  and  old 
chivalric  honor.  Years  ago,  passing  by  Coblentz,  I  saw  the 
pyramid  beneath  which  he  then  lay,  not  far  from  the  spot 
where  he  fell  in  his  glorious  youth.  Why  have  they  removed 
him  ?  Those  are  trophies  we  should  ever  leave  to  the  soil  of 
the  foe."* 

*  Byron  who  loved  true  heroism,  has  bestowcil  a  noble  eulogy  on  tba 
memory  of  tlie  heroic  Marceau. 

By  Coblentz,  on  a  rise  of  gentle  ground, 

There  is  a  small  and  simple  pyramid. 
Crowning  the  summit  of  the  verdant  mound ; 

Beneatli  its  base  are  heroes'  ashes  hid, 
Our  enemy's — but  lot  that  not  forbid 

Honor  to  Marceau  !  o'er  whose  early  tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  gush'd  from  the  rough  soldier's  lid. 

Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a  doom,  ■ 
i'alhng  lor  France,  whose  rights  he  battled  to  resume. 

Brief,  brave,  and  glorious  was  his  young  career, 
His  mourners  were  two  lioats,  his  friends  and  foes ; 


NATHALIE.  91 

As  lie  spoke  thus,  a  flush  crossed  his  pale  brow,  and  for  a 
moment  his  calm  look  kindled. 

There  was  an  awkward  attempt  on  the  part  of  Madame 
Marceau  to  look  interested  and  sympathetic,  but  in  spite  of  all 
her  efforts  her  brow  was  overcast,  and  Nathalie  could  see  her 
biting  her  lip,  like  one  striving  in  vain  against  some  bitter 
disappointment.  Her  brother  retired  early,  and  she  left  soon 
after  him. 

As  Nathalie  was  dressing  herself  on  the  following  morning, 
sle  chanced  to  open  the  upper  drawer  of  the  ebony  cabinet; 
scarcely  had  she  done  so  when  her  eye  fell  on  a  letter  lying 
within  it.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  draw  back,  her  next  to 
return  to  the  drawer,  take  up  the  letter,  read  the  superscrip- 
tion, examine  the  seal,  and,  after  keeping  it  some  time  in  her 
baud,  to  replace  it  exactly  where  she  had  found  it.  She  then 
closed  the  drawer,  and  without  thinking  of  her  unbraided  hair, 
which  fell  down  loosely  on  her  shoulders,  she  stood  motionless, 
with  her  eyes  on  the  floor,  her  chin  resting  on  the  palm  of  her 
hand, — her  whole  attitude  expressive  of  deep  thought. 

This  meditative  mood  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of 
Amanda,  who  made  her  appearance  with  an  apologetic  curtsey 
and  her  usual  inquisitorial  look.  "  Madame  had  sent  her  to 
see  whether  she  could  not  assist  mademoiselle  in  her  toilet." 
Nathalie  coldly  declined. 

But  timidity  was  not  one  of  Amanda's  faults.  "  She  felt 
convinced  that  she  could  do  something  with  mademoiselle's 
fine  hair  She  officiously  brought  a  chair  forward  as  she 
spoke  ;  N  athalie  looked  displeased,  but  suddenly  altering  her 
mind,  she  seated  herself.  Amanda's  white  hands  were  imme- 
diately busy  with  her  dark  tresses. 

"  How  delightful  !"  she  enthusiastically  exclaimed  ;  "  it  is 
so  long  since  I  had  such  an  opportunity  of  exercising  my 
talents.  Madame  Marceau  is  the  best  of  mistresses,  but  she 
will  let  me  do  nothing  with  her  head  ;  whereas  Madame  la 
Comtesse  d'Onesson  made  me  dress  and  undress  her  hair  five 

And  fitly  may  the  stranger,  lingering  here, 

Pray  for  his  gallant  spirit's  bright  repose  ; 
For  he  was  freedom's  champion,  one  of  those, 

The  few  in  number,  who  had  not  o'erstepped 
The  charter  to  chastise,  wluch  she  bestows 

On  such  as  wield  her  weapons ;  he  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  souL  and  thus  men  o'er  him  wept. 

Ch'dde  Harold,  st.  46,  41,  Caato  TIL 


t>2  NATHALIE. 

or  six  times  a  da}-.  It  was  such  good  practice,  and  gave  ms 
such  lightness  of  touch.  Does  mademoiselle  keep  her  poma- 
tum in  the  upper  drawer  of  that  cabinet  ?" 

"  There  is  nothing  in  that  upper  drawer  for  which  I  have 
the  least  value,"  drily  replied  Nathalie. 

'•  Well,  as  I  was  saying,"  composedly  resumed  Amanda.  "  a 
woman  without  hair  is  like  a  man  without  a  moustache, — no- 
thing. Twice  did  that  fatal  point,  the  want  of  a  moustache  in 
the  opposite  party,  prevent  me  from  marrying  very  advan- 
tageously. Now,  tlaough  Monsieur  Charles  is  so  handsome, — 
and  having  lived  in  the /lew  des  pais  of  the  French  nobles?e, 
I  ouo;ht  to  know  something  about  handsome  men, — he  had  not 
my  approbation  until  he  allowed  his  moustache  to  grow  ;  but, 
as  I  was  saying,  madame's  son  is  as  good  as  he  is  handsome, 
and  yet  he  has  a  fault ; — yes,  the  greatest  fault  man  can  have. 

She  paused.     Nathalie  said  nothing. 

"  No  man  can  have  a  greater  fault,"  decisively  continued 
Amanda. 

Still  Nathalie  remained  silent. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  saying,"  resumed  Amanda,  who  had  always 
been  saying  something  she  wished  to  say  ;  "  it  is  incomprehen- 
sible :  at  his  age, — at  any  age.  I  do  not  understand  women- 
haters.  Some  would  say  he  refuses  to  marry  a  charming  lady, 
young,  rich,  and  handsome,  on  account  of  some  previous  at- 
tachment, but  those  who  have  a  little  experience  of  the  world 
know  that  previous  attachments  are  not  so  strong  as  all  that ; 
there  must  be  woman-hating  in  the  case.  Now,  though  other 
people  may  have  been  disappointed  in  love,  and  may  feel  bitter, 
and  so  forth,  and  never  even  look  civilly  at  a  woman,  which 
they  might  do  if  they  are  too  grand  to  talk, — though  as  to  talk- 
ing, people  quite  as  grand  have  done  it ;  now,  as  I  say,  that  is 
no  reason  why  young  men,  who  cannot  be  supposed  to  have 
gone  through  the  same  disappointments,  should  take  up  those 
shocking  principles,  and  act  up  to  them,  and  make  their  mo- 
thers unhappy,  and  cause  charming  young  ladies  to  be  well- 
nigh  broken-hearted, — all  because  they  are  women-haters  !     If 

there  was,  indeed,  a  previous  attachment  in  the  case, will 

mademoiselle  look  at  herself  now  V  added  Amanda,  breaking 
off  suddenly. 

Nathalie  rose,  looking  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and  frankly 
acknowledged  Amanda's  skill. 

'*  You  are  a  real  artist,"  she  said  ;  "  the  back  hair  is  brought 
forward  in  a  moat  original  manner." 


NATHALIE.  93 

•'  It  is, — it  is/'  enthusiastically  cried  AniaiiJa.  with  a  kin- 
dling glance  :  "  Mademoiselle  has  the  eye  of  a  master.  That 
tour  is  my  own  creation.  '  Amanda,'  said  Madame  la  Conitessc 
d'Onesson  to  mc,  rising,  one  afternoon,  'I  go,  in  three  days,  to 
the  Russian  Ambassador's  ball ;  all  Europe  will  be  there.  I 
must  have  something  novel.  Eemcmber  that  I  have  spared 
your  feelings  ;  I  have  not  appealed,  even  on  urgent  occasions, 
to  the  most  illustrious  professors  ;  but,  entre  nous,  my  child, 
your  style  is  monotonous  ;  I  fear  you  are  worn  out.  Unless 
you  produce  some  brilliant  composition,  I  shall  be  compelled 
to  consign  you  to  the  ordinary  duties  of  the  toilet,  and  submit 
to  the  vulgar  prejudice  which  gives  up  the  head  of  woman  to 
the  clumsy  hands  of  man.'  Let  mademoiselle  imagine  my  feel- 
ings !  I  spent  two  days  in  the  library,  looking  over  books  anJ 
engravings  ;  but  I  could  neither  invent  nor  borrow.  I  went  to 
bed  in  despair  ;  my  reputation  was  lost.  At  length  an  im^pira- 
tion  came ;  I  saw  this  admirable  tour,  rose  and  went  to  ma- 
dame's  room.  Though  greatly  fatigued  from  having  danced  all 
night,  she  rose  with  angelic  sweetness.  The  effect  was  so  ad- 
mirable, that  madanr.o  embraced  me,  and  presented  me  with 
this  ring  on  the  spot.  Ah  !  if  mademoiselle  would  only  be 
kind  enough  to  accept  of  my  services  occasionally?  ' 

"  Provided  you  do  not  meddle  with  my  upper  drawer,"  quietly 
replied  Nathalie. 

Amanda  smiled  demurely.  When  Nathalie  looked  in  the 
evening  the  letter  had  vanished.  It  was  then  on  its  way  to 
Paris,  inclosed  in  an  ill-spelt  but  well  worded  billet,  addressed 
by  Mademoiselle  Amanda  to  Monsieur  Charles,  and  in  which 
that  lady  assured  him  Mademoiselle  Montolieu's  indiiference 
■was  only  too  apparent.  A  little  P.  S.  likewise  informed  Mon- 
sieur Charles  that  Mademoiselle  Amanda,  actuated  by  the 
most  disinterested  zeal  in  his  cause,  had  undertaken  to  dress 
Mademoiselle  Montolieu'a  hair  for  the  express  purpose  of  dis- 
posing her  heart  more  in  favor  of  Monsieur  Charles. 

The  morning  passed  quietly.  Nathalie  sate  in  the  drawing- 
room  with  the  Canoncss  and  Madame  Marceau  ;  the  former  was 
voluble  as  usual ;  her  niece  looked  unwell,  and  complained  of 
a  sharp  pain  in  her  side.  Towards  noon  the  sound  of  carriage- 
wheels  was  heard  in  the  avenue.  Nathalie  detected  the  hasty 
look  of  annoyance  Madame  Marceau  directed  towards  her. 

"  Who  is  it?"  asked  Aunt  Radegonde. 

"The  De  Jus,sac3,  I  suppose.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu.  I 
hope  you  arc  not  going  to  leave  the  room." 


94  NATHALIE. 

This  was  uttered  in  as  faint  a  tone  of  entreaty  as  polite 
ness  permitted. 

"  Oh  !  no,"  coolly  answered  Nathalie,  "  but  I  feel  too  warm 
here." 

She  looked  flushed  as  she  rose  and  retired  to  one  of  the 
window-recesses.  The  visitors  entered  ;  the  young  girl's  look 
was  not  once  raised  from  her  embroidery,  but  she  felt,  if  she 
did  not  see,  that  Madame  Marceau  had  placed  herself  so  as  to 
keep  her  in  the  shade.  This  was  scarcely  needed,  for  the  long 
drapery  of  the  crimson  curtains  shrouded  her  completely  from 
view.  The  drawing-room  was  large  ;  Madame  de  Jussac  and 
her  daughters  sat  with  their  hostess  at  the  other  end  of  the 
apartment ;  their  conversation  reached  Nathalie  in  broken 
sentences  ;  she  cared  not  for  it ;  she  had  laid  by  her  work,  her 
glance  was  bent  on  the  avenue  below,  but  she  saw  it  not,  for 
her  pride,  always  watchful,  was  now  roused  and  indignant. 
She  looked  round  ;  no  one  heeded  her  ;  she  left  the  apartment 
unperceived.  The  garden  looked  so  warm  and  sunny  from  the 
landing  window,  that  instead  of  going  up  to  her  own  room,  as 
she  first  thought  to  do,  she  went  down  stairs. 

The  symmetrical  gardens  loved  in  the  olden  time,  though 
now  so  long  out  of  fashion,  have  still  a  rare  charm  of  their 
own.  The  airy  marble  balustrade  and  graceful  stone  vases 
filled  with  fresh  flowers,  the  broad  flight  of  stately  steps,  the 
smooth  gravel  walks,  trim  hedges,  green  grass-plots  and  varie- 
gated parterres,  statues  of  fawns  and  laughing  nymphs,  and 
gay  fountains  sparkling  in  the  sun,  have  all  the  cheerfulness 
and  genial  warmth  of  tiie  pleasant  south.  Here  there  is  ver- 
dure without  damp,  and  spreading  shade  without  treacherous 
mists  or  winding  alleys  of  melancholy  gloom.  The  whole  as- 
pect of  the  place  is  light,  joyous  and  sunny  ;  it  speaks  of  azure 
skies,  of  shelter  from  the  fervid  sun  of  noon,  and  pleasant 
walks  on  the  clear  moonlight ;  of  those  days  when  lovely  Italy 
from  the  greatest  had  become  the  most  pleasant  land  in  all 
Christendom ;  when  gallant  cavaliers  and  fair  dames  met  for 
revel  and  pastime  in  every  gay  villa,  and  wiled  the  hours  away 
with  dance  and  song,  or,  resting  'neath  the  shade  within  the 
sound  and  freshness  of  falling  waters,  heard  and  told  many  a 
tale  of  love  and  old  romance. 

The  pleasant  aspect  of  the  garden  of  Sainville  on  this  au- 
tumn morning,  the  verdure  of  all  around,  the  blue  serenity  of 
the  sky,  the  sunny  warmth  of  the  hour,  charmed  Nathalie, 
whose  mind  had  all  the  elasticity  of  her  years.     She  had  nevoi 


NATHALIE  95 

seen  a  spot  like  this  in  Provence,  and  yet  by  a  train  of  subtle 
associations  it  did  remind  her  of  Provence  and  of  old  familiar 
things.  This  was  enough  to  soothe  her  ruffled  mood  ;  she 
lightly  walked  along  the  sunny  path, — now  loitering  near  a 
yoor  statue  in  its  sequestered  niche,  where  it  had  grown  green 
with  the  gathered  damp  of  many  winters, — now  looking  at  the 
fountain  with  its  sparkling  jet  (Veau^ — now  pausing  to  admire 
a  group  of  pale  and  bending  china  asters,  or  to  watch  a  proud 
peacock  perched  on  the  top  of  a  marble  column  rising  in  the 
centre  of  a  grass-plot,  and  on  which  it  stood  like  some  enchanted 
bird  of  rare  plumage,  until,  by  approaching,  the  young  girl 
broke  the  spell,  and  opening  its  wings  it  flew  away  with  a  dis- 
cordant scream. 

It  was  some  time  before  Nathalie  reached  the  end  of  the 
first  terrace.  She  was  descending  one  of  the  flights  of  step.s 
that  led  to  the  second,  when  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  footstej) 
in  the  gravel  walk  behind  her.  Without  reflecting  why  she 
did  so,  she  hastily  stepped  into  the  sanctuary  of  the  sleeping 
nymph.  The  sound  drew  nearer;  an  erect  figure  descended 
the  flight  of  steps ;  it  was  Monsieur  de  Sainville.  A  row  ol 
yews  and  evergreens  screened  Nathalie  from  observation  ;  her 
dark  dress  could  scarcely  be  discerned  through  the  gloomy 
foliage  of  the  trees  near  which  she  stood,  but  she  could  soe 
whilst  thus  unseen,  and  she  bent  eagerly  forward  as  Monsieui 
de  Sainville  passed  close  to  her  retreat.  He  looked  exactly 
as  on  their  first  interview  :  calm,  grave,  and  thoughtful.  In 
stooping  to  see  him  better  she  made  a  slight  noise ;  he  paused 
and  threw  a  quick,  penetrating  look  towards  the  spot  where 
she  stood  :  but  the  glance  lasted  only  a  second  ;  his  look  was 
once  more  bent  on  the  earth  as  with  folded  arms  and  thought- 
ful mien  he  passed  on. 

Nathalie  breathed  more  freely.  She  had  felt  confident  of 
being  discovei'cd,  and  had  no  wish  for  a  lonely  meeting  with 
her  severe-looking  host.  When  after  some  time  she  left  her 
retreat,  she  therefore  entered  the  grounds  instead  of  proceed- 
ing to  the  river  side ;  but  she  was  not  fortunate,  for  the  first 
path  she  took  brought  her  in  presence  of  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville, who  was  slowly  walking  along  in  the  same  direction. 
She  looked  shy  and  embarrassed  ;  he  greeted  her  with  hia 
calm  and  self-possessed  courtesy. 

"  Do  you  like  the  recess  where  you  were  a  while  ago  ?"  he 
suddenly  asked  after  some  desultory  conversation. 

"  Yes.  very  much."  hesitatingly  answered  Nathalie.     "  So 


96  NATHALIE. 

he  knew  I  was  tliere,"  she  thought,  wondering  whether  he  alao 
knew  she  liad  been  examining  him  so  closely. 

'•Few  like  it,"  lie  continued;  "  indeed,  it  does  not  agree 
with  the  cheerful  character  of  all  around.  The  ivy  and  yews 
give  the  place  a  dark  and  melancholy  aspect." 

Nathalie  did  not  answer,  and  Monsieur  de  Sainville  spoke 
no  more.  They  walked  along  in  silence,  and  soon  reached  a 
fine  lime-tree  avenue,  which  extended  from  one  of  the  wings  of 
the  chateau  into  the  grounds.  As  they  entered  it  Nathalie 
felt  relieved  to  perceive  Madame  Marceau  and  the  Canoness 
seated  on  a  wooden  bench  which  stood  within  the  cool  shadow 
of  the  largest  tree.  The  younger  lady  eyed  Nathalie  with  a 
sort  of  haughty  surprise. 

"  My  dear  Armand,"  said  she,  addressing  her  brother  with 
stately  concern,  "you  have  missed  seeing  Madame  de  Jussac 
and  her  daughters  ;  did  you  not  see  the  carriage  V 

'■  I  heard  it,"  was  the  laconic  reply. 

"  I  assure  you  they  were  quite  disappointed." 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  supremely  indifferent. 
■   "  They  are  such  charming  girls,"  continued  Madame  Mar- 
ceau ;  '-perfect  specimens  of  Norman  beauty — Adele  especial- 
ly." 

She  looked  at  Nathalie,  but  addressed  her  brother. 

"  Yes.  she  is  good  looking,"  he  answered. 

"  Good  looking  !"  repeated  Madame  Marceau,  looking 
vexed ;  "  I  think  she  is  by  far  the  prettiest  girl  I  have  ever 
seen." 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  smiled  one  of  his  peculiar  smiles. 

"  I  have  no  wish,"  he  coldly  said,  "  to  depreciate  Mademoi- 
selle de  Jussac's  attractions,  of  which,  indeed,  I  am  no  fair 
judge,  not  happening  to  admire  blue  eyes  or  golden  hair." 

"  But  you  admired  them  once,  Armand,"  replied  his  sister, 
with  a  short  irritated  laugh. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  eyed  her  for  a  moment  with  a  sort  of 
calm  sternness  that  assorted  well  with  the  unmoved  yet  severe 
expression  habitual  to  his  countenance.  Though  the  look 
lasted  for  a  second  only,  Madame  Marceau  had  not  yet  re- 
covered from  the  evident  ti-epidation  into  which  it  threw  her, 
when  her  brother  resumed,  in  his  usual  tone : 

"  Beauty  is  of  little  worth  ;  Mademoiselle  de  Jussac  pos- 
sesses woman's  greatest  charm  in  a  gentle,  submissive  disposi- 
tion." 

"  And  that  IS  woman's  greatest  charm,  is  it  V  thought  Na- 
thalie, a  little  nettled. 


NATHALIE.  97 

"Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  said  Madame  Marceau,  in  a 
patronizing  tone,  "  why  did  you  leave  the  drawing-room  so  pre 
eipitately  ?     Are  you  timid  V 

'•  Not  at  all,  madame,"  dryly  replied  Nathalie  ;  '•  nor  gen- 
tle," she  longed  to  add,  as  she  detected  a  half  smile  on  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville's  countenance,  but  the  temptation  was  ^^ru- 
dently  checked. 

"  Will  you  not  sit  down,  Petite?"  here  observed  the  Cau- 
on933.  "  Amanda  said  she  saw  you  going  into  the  garden,  and 
I  caused  this  stool  to  be  brought  for  you." 

She  spoke  as  if  she  felt  the  slight  the  young  girl  had  re- 
ceived, and  wished  to  atone  for  it.  Nathalie  silently  seated 
herself  by  her  side.  Monsieur  do  Sainville  declined  his 
sister's  offer  of  a  seat  on  the  bench. 

'•  I  prefer  this,"  said  he,  walking  up  and  down  the  avenue. 

'•  I  think  you  prefer  any  thing  to  remaining  quiet,"  impa- 
tiently thought  Nathalie,  whom  this  monotonous  promenade 
annoyed  considerably. 

"  Petite,"  continued  the  Canoness,  seeing  the  conversation 
languish,  "  will  you  read  us  something  from  the  last  number 
of  the  Kevue  ?" 

Nathalie  assented,  and  took  the  volume. 

"What  shall  I  read?"  she  asked.  '•  Here  is  a  tale  entitled 
Mystere." 

"Let  us  hear  Mj'stere,  by  all  means,  said  the  Canoness, 
with  great  alacrity,  "  and  mind  you  do  not  read  too  loud  on  my 
account. 

Nathalie  hesitated  to  begin ;  she  was  wondering  whether 
it  was  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  intention  to  listen. 

"  We  are  quite  ready,"  majestically  said  Madame  Marceau, 
nodding  to  the  young  girl,  who  sate  on  her  low  stool,  with  the 
book  on  her  lap,  one  hand  keeping  it  open,  whilst  the  other 
supported  her  inclined  brow. 

Nathalie  smiled  a  little  disdainfully  at  finding  her  hesita- 
tion thus  interpreted,  but  she  complied,  and  began. 

The  story  was  mysterious  enough  in  feeling,  for  in  incident 
nothing  could  be  more  clear.  It  professed  to  relate  the  fate 
and  sorrows  of  a  handsome  and  modest  girl,  madly  in  love  with 
a  profligate  sharper,  and  clinging  to  him  still,  in  spite  of  his 
anworthiness.  The  only  impropriety  in  the  tale  was  in  the 
subject,  but  it  annoyed  Nathalie  to  be  reading  it  aloud.  When 
she  came  to  the  most  impassioned  passages,  she  skipped  freely  ; 
likewise,  whenever  Monsieur  de  Sainville  drew  near,  she  read 

5 


98  NATHALIE. 

faster,  aud  slightly  lowered  ber  voice,  to  raise  it  again  when  ha 
had  gone  by.  This  she  did  several  times.  At  length  he  sud- 
denly paused  in  his  walk,  to  say,  in  bis  cold,  polite  way : 

"  Pray,  mademoiselle,  do  not  raise  your  voice  on  my  ae- 
■  count.  I  bear  distinctly  when  I  am  farthest,  and  when  you 
read  in  your  lowest  key." 

Nathalie  colored,  as  she  perceived  her  little  feminine  ma- 
noeuvre thus  detected.  To  add  to  her  embarrassment,  Aunt 
Radegonde  observed,  with  evident  wonder : 

"  What  a  strange  author,  Petite  ;  I  never  heard  such  ab- 
rupt transitions." 

"  Nor  I,"  briefly  said  her  nephew,  in  a  tone  that  convinced 
Nathalie  he  knew  very  well  by  whose  agency  the  abrupt  tran- 
sitions had  been  effected. 

At  length,  and  to  her  great  satisfaction,  the  story  conclud- 
ed with  an  impassioned  letter,  of  which  she  did  not  venture  to 
omit  one  word,  addressed  by  the  tender-hearted  heroine  to  her 
fascinating  sharper. 

"A  romantic  story,  is  it  not.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  .^" 
carelessly  observed  Madame  Marceau,  who  bad  been  half-re- 
clining in  an  attitude  of  total  indifference  all  the  time. 

"  I  think  it  unnatural,  madame,"  replied  Nathalie,  closing 
the  book. 

'•  Oh!  you  do?  How  so  ?^' 

Nathalie  hesitated  to  reply.  She  felt  that  the  under-cur- 
rent of  Madame  Marceau's  bland  manner  was  sharp  and  irri- 
tating. She  looked  unwell.  Was  it  pain  rendered  ber  thus, 
or  something  relative  to  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  or  perhaps 
even  to  herself? 

"  How  so  ?"  again  said  Madame  Marceau,  as  if  determined 
to  make  her  answer. 

"Is  it  not  unnatural,  madame,"  answered  Nathalie,  "  that  a 
woman,  represented  as  pure  aud  good,  should  care  for  that 
worthless  man?" 

"  Oh  !  that  is  only  romantic,"  answered  Madame  Marceau, 
with  a  cold  smile  ;  "  and  romantic  girls  are  capable  of  any  fol- 
ly. Do  not  color  up  so,  my  dear  child ;  you  are  not  at  all  ro- 
mantic, I  am  sure.  What  struck  me  as  most  improbable," 
she  sententiously  added,  "  was,  that  two  such  persons,  stand- 
ing at  the  extremities  of  the  social  scale,  should  meet.  But, 
though  you  do  not  of  course  think  so,  novels  are  so  false.  Ma- 
demoiselle  Montolieu.  I  know  you  will  support  me  there,  Ar- 
mand,"  she  added,  turning  towards  her  brother,  who  now  stood 
near  them  ;  '■'  you  are  nn  friend  of  romance." 


NATHALIE.  09 

Nathalie,  who  felt  greatly  offended  at  the  uuwarrunted  in- 
Binuations  Madame  Marceau  chose  to  throw  out,  prepared  her- 
self to  be  still  more  offended  at  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  reply. 

"  If  by  romance  you  mean  the  illusions  of  youth,"  he  quiet- 
ly answered,  "  it  is  not  because  I  have  outlived  their  day,  that* 
I  quarrel  with  them." 

Madame  Marceau  looked  annoyed. 

"  My  dear  Armand,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  short  laugh,  "  I 
beg  3'our  pardon  ;  I  thought  you  were  a  professed  skeptic." 

'•'  The  character  of  skeptic,"  said  he,  very  coldly,  "  is  not 
one  I  respect,  or  to  which  I  lay  claim." 

"  Oh  !  then  I  have  been  mistaken  all  along,"  resumed  his 
sister  ;  "  I  thought — but  no  matter ; — is  there  any  harm,  Ar- 
mand, in  asking  you  in  what  you  still  believe?" 

'•  In  two  things,  without  which  this  world,  evil  as  it  is, 
would  be  much  worse, — in  God  and  honor." 

He  spoke  gravely,  and  looked  displeased. 

"And  in  nothing  else?"  ironically  inquired  Madame  Mar- 
ceau. 

Perhaps  he  did  not  hear  her — perhaps  he  thought  this  ca- 
techising had  been  carried  far  enough  ;  he  did  not,  at  least, 
reply  ;  and  Nathalie  could  see  Aunt  Radegoude  looking  unea- 
sily at  her  niece. 

"Well,"  resumed  Madame  Marceau,  somewhat  bitterly,  "I 
suppose  we  agree  on  one  point  at  least,  Armand, — novels  are 
unreal." 

The  slight  shade  of  displeasure  had  completely  passed 
away  from  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  brow,  when  he  replied — 

"  Their  reality  is  not  that  of  the  every-day  world,  Rosalie, 
and  why  should  it  be  ?  Their  task  is  to  deceive, — let  them 
only  deceive  us  well.  When  real  novels  are  by  chance  written, 
who  reads  them  ?  Youth  lays  them  down  with  all  the  scorn 
of  its  fervent  faith,  and  age,  unless  when  grown  cynical,  has 
had  enough  of  truth.  Fictions  are  revelations  not  of  truth, 
for  they  are  most  unreal,  but  of  that  which  the  soul  longs  to  be 
true  ;  they  are  mirrors  not  of  actual  human  experience,  but  of 
human  dreams  and  aspirations,  of  the  eternal,  though  most  un- 
availing desires  of  the  heart." 

"  At  that  rate,  that  foolish  Mystere  was  too  real." 

"  Real,"  echoed  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  "  I  think,  like 
Mademoiselle  Moutolieu,  that  it  was  a  false,  unnatural  story. 
What  pure  woman  could  love  that  vulgar  sharper?  Either 
he  is  a  better  man,  or  she  is  a  worse  woman,  than  we  find  hero 


100  NATHALIE. 

represented ;  either  he,  with  all  his  vices,  has  something  ori 
ginallj  noble,  or  she,  with  all  her  seeming  virtue,  is  corrupt 
at  heart.     There  is  no  surer  test  of  a  woman's  character  than 
the  man  she  prefers." 
*        "I  thought  caprice  was  the  great  guide." 

"  Not  if  there  is  judgment." 

"  But  if  there  is  not  judgment."  pertinaciously  resumed 
IMadame  Marceau. 

"  Then,  of  course,  the  character  is  imperfect  and  hope- 
less." 

Nathalie  thought  that  he  spoke  as  if  weary  of  the  discus- 
sion. 

'•  Yes,  but  where  there  is  judgment,"  slowly  and  emphati- 
cally said  Madame  Marceau,  "  how  calm,  passionless,  and  al- 
most godlike  is  the  character  ; — with  what  magnificent  indif 
ference  does  it  stand  aloof,  and   survey  jvery  thing  external." 

"  Is  this  irony  or  flattery  ?"  thought  Nathalie,  looking  up, 
and  wondering  how  Monsieur  de  Sainville  would  receive  this 
speech,  and  the  "  calm,  passionless,  godlike,"  &c.  He  was 
standing  near  the  bench  on  which  his  sister  sat,  but  his  un- 
moved countenance  gave  no  clue  to  his  feelings. 

'•  Those  minds  are  the  minds,"  pursued  Madame  Mar- 
ceau;  "with  them  no  undue  feeling  can  exist, — reason  reigns 
supreme." 

'•  What  has  reason  to  reign  over,  if  there  is  no  undue  feel- 
ing to  subdue?"  coldly  asked  her  brother. 

"  Passionless  characters  are  worthless  in  good  or  in  cril : 
their  gentleness  is  inability  to  feel  anger;  their  virtue  inabili- 
ty to  do  wrong.  They  know  not  how  to  hate,  because  they 
kni  w  not  how  to  love.  If  there  has  been  no  temptation,  there 
can  be  no  merit ;  if  there  has  been  no  struggle,  there  can  be 
no  victory." 

Nathalie  gave  him  a  quick  scrutinizing  glance,  but  it  was 
instantly  detected  by  his  look,  and  there  was  something  in 
that  cold  and  somewhat  haughty  gaze  which  completely  baf- 
fled her  scrutiny.  She  was  more  successful  with  Madame 
Marceau,  who  vainly  endeavored  to  look  unconcerned. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  well,  Rosalie,"  said  her  brother, 
addressing  her  in  a  low  altered  tone,  after  eyeing  her  for  a  few 
moments,  ''  a  walk  would  do  you  good." 

Madame  Marceau  hesitated,  but  at  length  rose,  and  ac- 
cepted her  brother's  offer. 

"  Will  you  not  accompany  us  over  the  grounds,  Mademoi 
eelle  Montolieu?"  he  asked,  turning  towards  Natha.lie. 


NATHALIE.  10  i 

Madamo  Marccau  looked  haughty  and  displeased.  Na 
thalie  decliued,  under  the  plea  of  remaining  with  the  Can- 
oness. 

'•  No,"  decisively  said  Aunt  Radegonde,  "  you  have  not 
seen  the  grounds  yet,  and  you  must  see  them ;  but,  beforo 
you  go,  you  will  perhaps  arrange  my  shawl  about  me.  Petite," 
she  hurriedly  whispered,  as  Nathalie  rose,  and  wrapped  her 
up  in  a  vast  shawl,  '•  never  refuse  any  little  civility  Armani 
may  offer  you  ;  cold  as  he  looks,  he  can  be  the  best  friend  in 
the  world.     They  are  waiting  ;  go." 

"  Why,«what  sort  of  a  pasha  is  this  host  of  mine,  that  so 
commonplace  an  act  of  politeness  is  construed  into  a  high 
favor,"  thought  Nathalie,  as  she  slowly  fallowed  Monsieur  de 
Sainville  and  his  sister.  But  his  quiet,  unassuming  manner 
was  by  no  means  that  of  one  who  has  conferred  a  favor.  Na- 
thalie had  leisure  to  contrast  it  with  that  of  Madame  Marceau, 
who,  as  if  anxious  to  impress  the  young  girl  with  the  fact,  that 
she  and  her  brother  could  agree  as  well  as  jar,  now  expatiated, 
in  her  lofty  way,  on  divers  subjects,  all  skilfully  chosen,  as 
Nathalie  thou2;ht,  so  as  to  draw  forth  no  contradiction.  But 
this  was  not  destined  to  be  a  fortunate  day  with  Madame 
Marceau. 

It  was  not  long  before  they  reached  a  part  of  the  grounds 
where  several  men  were  engaged  in  clearing  away  a  group  of 
trees,  which  had  been  found  to  injure,  instead  of  improving 
the  prospect.  Several  trees  lay  felled  on  the  grass ;  a  few 
dark  yews  and  a  sickly-looking  poplar  alone  remained  standing. 

•'  The  yews  are  to  remain,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  ad- 
dressing the  chief  of  the  workmen,  who  had  approached  to  re 
ceive  his  orders ;  "  but  that  poplar  looks  unsightly  ;  I  ordered 
Ar.dre  to  fell  it  several  days  ago." 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  Monsieur  Charles  said  it  was  to  stay." 

"  What !"  incredulously  exclaimed  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 

"  Monsieur  Charles  told  him  it  was  to  stay,  sir,"  repeated 
the  man,  raising  his  voice. 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Nathalie  could  see  a  slight 
frown  contract  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  brow,  and  Madame 
3Iarceau  turning  pale  as  she  beheld  it. 

"  You  will  fell  the  poplar-tree,  to-morrow,"  quietly  resumed 
her  brother,  and  he  walked  on. 

The  silence  that  followed  seemed  uncomfortable  to  all. 
Nathalie  lingered  behind.  Madame  Marceau  gave  her  a 
hasty  look,  and,  probably  thinking  she  was  out  of  hearing,  ad- 
dressed her  brother  in  a  low  tone  : 


102  NATHALIE. 

'■  I  hope,  Arinand,  the  imprudence  of  Charles " 

"  We  will  not  mention  it,"  he  interrupted;  "let  him  uoi 
act  so  again." 

"  I  am  sure  Andre  must  have  misunderstood  him." 

"I  agree  with  you,  that  Andre  misunderstood  him  ;  and 
as  he  committed  a  mistake,  not  a  fault,  he  shall  be  welcome  to 
return,  if  he  chooses." 

"  I  am  sure  he  will  be  quite  grateful,"  said  Madame  Mar- 
ceau,  biting  her  nether  lip. 

"  Why  so  !  for  having  been  unjustly  treated,  and  abruptly 
dismissed.  The  fact  is,  Andre  never  suspected  ha  was  diso- 
beying me  ;  he  concluded  no  one  would  give  such  an  order 
unautliorized  by  me — I  concluded  no  one  would  presume  to 
do  so." 

Bladame  Marceau  made  no  answer,  and  the  silence  was 
not  broken,  until  Monsieur  de  Sainville  turned  towards  Na- 
thalie, and  observed : 

"  May  I  ask  your  opinion  on  a  matter  that  occupios  me 
just  now  ?" 

Nathalie  came  up  with  a  half-startled  look. 

"  It  is  only  a  gardening  question,"  said  he,  smiling. 

"  I  am  lamentably  ignorant  of  gardening,  sir,"  she  hur- 
riedly answered  ;  "  I  shall  utter  some  solecism." 

"  And  the  courage  of  being  mistaken  with  a  good  grace  is 
not  the  courage  of  your  age ;  but  experience  will  teach  you 
some  day  to  utter  a  genuine,  honest  blunder,  with  suitable 
unconcern.  In  the  mean  while,  pray  let  me  have  your  opinion. 
Shall  this  grassy  plot  remain  as  it  is,  or  shall  we  enliven  it 
with  a  few  flowers?" 

"  I  should  pronounce  in  favor  of  the  flowers,  sir." 

"  Why  so  ?" 

"  They  are  so  beautiful." 

"  But  of  a  frivolous,  transient  beauty.  Yet  your  sugges- 
tion shall  be  adopted.  Taste  must  have  its  feminine  element, 
and  I  have  been  giving  these  grounds  too  dark  and  severe  an 
aspect.  What  is  the  matter,  Rosalie?"  said  he,  addressing 
his  sister,  who,  after  listening  to  him  with  evident  irritation, 
and  frequently  applying  the  vinaigrette,  was  now  turning 
away  with  indignant  majesty. 

"  I  feel  unwell,  Armand,"  said  she,  coldly. 

"  Then  let  us  go  in,  and  take  aunt  en  xxissantP 

Madame  Marceau  retired  to  her  room  for  the  rest  of  the 
day.     Wlicn  her  brother  came  down  to  the  drawing-rooni  in 


•NATHALIE.     -  i03 

tlie  evening,  Nathalie  felt  luucli  p'iqued  at  the  mixture  of 
politeness  and  indifference  with  which  he  treated  her  presence. 
"  Did  he  mean  to  awe  her  ?  He  might  find  himself  mistak- 
en !"  But  alas  !  it  was  only  too  apparent  that  to  awe  her  or 
produce  any  effect  upon  her  was  the  last  of  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville's  thoughts.  Half  out  of  curiosity,  half  out  of  pique,  she 
ventured  to  differ  from  him  once  or  twice,  just  to  see  how  he 
would  take  it.  He  took  it  very  well  indeed — smiled — seemed 
a  little  surprised,  and  a  little  amused — heard  her  politely,  but 
without  giving  her  arguments  great  weight — and  treated  her, 
in  short,  with  the  good-humored  forbearance  which  a  man  of 
his  years  and  experience  might  be  expected  to  display  towards 
a  young  and  somewhat  presumptuous  girl.  In  vain  she  looked 
cold,  dignified  and  displeased.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  would 
not  notice  her  vexation  or  acknowledge  her  claims,  but  pej- 
fiisted.  in  treating  her  with  the  most  provoking  and  gentleman- 
like courtesy. 

"  Petite."  said  the  Canoness,  when  he  was  gone,  "  how  hot 
you  look  !     Is  the  room  close  ?" 

Nathalie  gave  her  a  searching  glance,  but  there  was  no 
mistaking  the  innocent  simplicity  of  her  look.  More  than 
she  said,  she  evidently  did  not  mean. 

'■  Yes,"  answered  Nathalie,  "  the  room  is  very  close." 

The  lamp  was  still  unlit  when  she  went  up  to  her  room, 
but  a  ray  of  light  from  the  opposite  turret  fell  on  the  polished 
oak  floor.  The  young  girl  looked  out — the  light  came  from 
Monsieur  de  Sainville's  window,  and  she  could  see  him  pacing 
his  room  up  and  down  in  a  regular  and  monotonous  pro- 
rrenade. 

"  He  seems  restless  enough,  for  one  so  quiet-looking,'" 
thought  Nathalie,  as  she  stood  by  her  window,  watching  him 
before  she  allowed,  the  curtain  which  she  held  back  with  her 
hand  to  drop  once  more ;  "but  impenetrable  and  mysterious 
as  he  chooses  to  appear,  it  shall  go  hard  if  I  do  not  learn  to 
read  and  understand  him  yeV 


104  NATHALIE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


"Made.moisflle  Montolieu,  liow  demure  you  look  to-day,'' 
said  a  soft,  bland  voice  behind  Nathalie,  as  she  stood  on  the  fol 
lowing  morning  working  in  the  embrasure  of  the  drawing-rooia 
window.  A  fair  hand,  spaidding  with  jewels,  was  lightly  laid 
on  her  shoulder.  Nathalie  turned  round,  and  beheld  Madame 
Marceau.  Her  cheek  had  a  hectic  tinge,  deepened  by  the 
reflection  from  the  crimson  curtain  near  which  she  stood  ;  her 
eyes  were  feverish  and  restless,  her  lips  parched  and  dry ;  but 
she  smiled  down  very  graciously  on  the  young  girl,  whose 
passive  hand  she  took  within  her  own.  "  You  are  not  privi- 
leged to  be  grave,  like  me,"  she  continued  ;  "  you  see,  ray  child, 
I  have  not  always  met  those  in  whose  honor  and  strong  sense 
I  could  trust.  I  must  sometimes  misunderstand  motives  and 
actions  ;  but  I  have  been  speaking  to  Armand  this  morning : 
he  has  made  clear  that  which  seemed  obscure — there  is  no 
misunderstanding  now."  She  spoke  significantly,  and  pressed 
her  hand. 

Nathalie  did  not  answer.     The  lady  eyed  her  keenly. 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  said  she,  drawing  herself  up 
with  melancholy  dignity,  "  certain  positions  are  dearly  bought. 
Others  can  be  unwell — can  heed  their  sufferings ;  we  belong 
not  to  ourselves  ;  we  must  act  a  part ;  but  we  are  human — the 
reaction  inevitably  follows." 

"  And  I  fear  you  were  very  ill  yesterday,"  said  Nathalie. 

"111!"  sharply  echoed  the  lady;  "no,  I  was  only  nervous  ; 
my  health  is  excellent.  Aunt,"  she  added,  turning  towards 
the  Canoness,  "  have  you  been  telling  Mademoiselle  Montolieu 
that  I  am  ill  ?" 

'•  I,  Rosalie  !  no :  but  Armand  said  yesterday  evening  he 
would  send  Doctor  Laurent  to  you." 

'•  He  is  too  kind — I  am  quite  well,"  said  her  niece,  whilst  ?, 
forced  smile  parted  her  pale  lips. 

Aunt  Radegonde.  laying  down  her  knitting,  began  a  grave 
lecture  on  the  danger  of  neglect;  but  Madame  Marceau  angrily 
exclaimed, 

'•  I  tell  you  I  am  not  ill,  aunt." 

The  Canoness  coughed  dubiously,  but  held  her  peace. 

A  week  passed  away.  3Ionsieur  de  Sainville  was  away  at 
Marmont ;  his  sister  dropped  her  patronizing  tone,  and  treated 


NATHALIE.  105 

her  young  guest  with  much  politeness  and  consideration.  Na- 
thalie was  beginning,  however,  to  feel  a  touch  of  ennui  at  the 
stately  routine  of  her  new  existence,  when  one  morning  she 
unexpectedly  learned  that  her  sister  had  returned.  She 
resolved  to  call  upon  her  immediately  ;  but  she  had  promised 
to  join  the  Canoness  in  the  drawing-room,  and,  in  passing  by, 
she  entered  it  to  excuse  herself 

Neither  Aunt  Radegonde  nor  Madame  Marceau  occupied 
their  usual  seats ;  but  the  room  was  not  lonely,  for,  standing 
with  his  back  towards  her,  Nathalie  perceived  Monsieur  de 
Sainville.  She  had  not  so  much  as  suspected  his  return  from 
Marmont.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  retire;  but  he  looked  up. 
saw  her  in  one  of  the  large  mirrors,  and  turned  round  com- 
posedly. Though  he  could  scarcely  repress  a  smile  as  he 
detected  her  look  of  annoyance,  he  greeted  her  with  his  accus- 
tomed politeness.  Nathalie  looked  cold  and  reserved,  and 
remained  standing;  near  the  door. 

'•  I  am  fortunate  in  meeting  you  thus,"  said  he,  quietly 
•'for  I  very  much  wished  to  speak  to  you." 

Nathalie  came  forward  half-hesitatingly.  He  wanted  hei 
to  be  seated,  but  she  declined,  '•  she  preferred  standing."  She 
did  not  look  shy,  but  proud,  and,  though  she  knew  it  not,  half 
offended.  Her  whole  bearing  said,  "  I  do  not  intend  thia 
interview  to  last  very  long." 

"  I  believe  you  are  going  out,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 
"  and  I  do  not  wish  to  detain  you.  I  have  only  one  question 
to  ask :  may  I  hope  you  will  do  me  the  favor  of  answering  it? 
You  have  beer  about  a  week  in  Sainville:  do  you  like  your 
sojourn  here?'' 

Nathalie  had  not  anticipated  this  question.  She  hesitated, 
sought  for  a  proper  reply,  and  found  none  so  suitable  as  the 
plain  one,  '•  very  much,  sir." 

He  looked  pleased. 

"  I  am  gratified  to  hear  you  say  so,  in  that  frank  way,  for 
to  say  the  truth,  1  feared  that  at  your  age,  and  with  the  tastes 
natural  to  youth,  this  house  must  prove  very  dull.  Do  you 
think,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  '•  you  would  like  to  dw^U  here 
for  some  length  of  time?" 

Nathalie  looked  embarrassed. 

"  I  believe  I  should."  she  at  length  replied  ;- — "  but—" 

"  I  am  not  asking  you  to  bind  yourself  to  any  thing,"  inter- 
rupted 3Ionsieur  de  Sainville  ;  "  indeed,  the  latter  question  wai 


105  NATHALIE. 

perhaps  premature  ;  but  I  am  bappy  to  learn  Sainville  is  nol 
disagreeable  to  you." 

With  this  the  conversation  ended.  Nathalie  left  the  room 
wondering  what  Monsieur  de  Sainville  meant,  and  so  much  oc- 
cupied with  this  thought  that  she  wholly  forgot  her  intended 
apology  to  the  Canoness,  and  even  passed  by  Mademoiselle 
Dantin's  door  without  remembering  that  she  had  once  lived 
there. 

The  town  of  Sainville  was  irregularly  built  on  a  declivity  ; 
its  steep,  narrow,  and  ill-paved  streets  overhung  with  high,  pro- 
jecting houses,  most  of  them  built  of  wood,  rendered  it  one  of 
the  most  picturesque  and  gloomy  little  places  in  all  Normandy. 
It  had  been  an  abbey  town  before  the  first  French  revolution, 
and  a  sort  of  perpetual  twilight  and  monastic  silence  shrouded 
it  still.  A  few  dull  shops  scarcely  relieved  the  monotony  of 
the  well-like  streets,  with  their  gaunt  old  houses  rising  in  dark 
outlines  against  the  bright  blue  sky.  When  Nathalie  had  firbt 
'come  from  her  gay  sunny  Provence  to  this  gloomy  town  of  the 
north,  she  had  candidly  wondered  at  the  human  beings  who, 
without  any  seeming  necessity,  could  resign  themselves  to  in- 
habit this  misanthropic-looking  spot.  Even  now,  accustomed 
to  it  as  she  had  grown,  she  found,  after  leaving  the  light  and 
airy  old  chateau,  that  the  very  houses  along  which  she  passed 
had  an  air  of  greater  dreariness  and  enmd  than  ever. 

Madame  Lavigne,  the  aunt  of  Rose,  resided  at  the  other 
extremity  of  the  town,  in  a  retired  little  court,  or  rather  alley, 
lying  within  the  deep  shadow  and  sanctified  gloom  of  the  old 
abbey.  Gray,  vast,  and  imposing,  it  rose  facing  a  row  of  nar- 
row houses,  on  the  other  side  of  the  pathway,  which  had  been 
used  as  a  passage  to  a  side-door  of  the  edifice,  in  former  times, 
when  the  abbey  was  in  its  pride,  and  devout  pilgrims  thronged 
Sainville  at  the  yearly  and  gorgeous  festivals  of  its  patron  saint. 
But  a  neighboring  railroad  had  reduced  the  little  town  to  com- 
plete insignificance  ;  the  faithful  had  fallen  ofi"  in  zeal  and  num- 
bers ;  the  side  entrance  had  long  been  closed  up,  dust  gathered 
through  years,  and  carved  stone  ornaments  fallen  from  a  neigh- 
boring and  half-ruined  tower,  lay  heaped  up  against  the 
wooden  door ;  the  long  grass  grew  freely  on  the  worn  out,  but 
now  untrodden  threshold,  and  between  the  damp  flags  of  the 
lonely  court.  E-ooks  had  made  their  nests  in  the  ruined  tower, 
where  they  cawed  all  day  long,  whilst  gray  swallows  skimmed 
about  at  twilight,  and  twittered  beneath  the  eaves  .of  the  low- 
walled  and  abandoned  cloisters.     A  wild  pear-tree,  growing  in 


NATHAMK  107 

ilie  neglected  grounds  within,  overhung  the  low  roof  and  nar 
row  court  in  which  it  shed  its  pale  blossoms  every  spring,  and 
russet  leaves  every  autumn  ;  beneath  it,  in  a  sheltering  angle 
of  the  building,  stood  a  small  stone  cross  and  well ;  the  gift  to 
the  town  of  some  pious  burgher,  of  that  age  of  faith  when  an 
idea  of  sanctity  seems  to  have  been  linked  with  clear  and  flow- 
ing waters.  The  well-worn  steps  attested  it  had  once  been 
greatly  frequented,  but  none,  save  the  inhabitants  of  the  court, 
came  to  it  now  ;  another  fountain  twice  as  large,  profusely  gilt 
and  bronzed,  with  a  gay  nymph  instead  of  the  lowly  and  faith- 
ful cross,  stood  in  the  neighboring  thoroughfare.  Little  heed- 
ing the  changes  of  human  caprice  or  creed,  clear  and  sparkling 
as  ever,  the  pure  water  flowed  on,  and  fell  into  its  little  stone 
basin  with  a  low  cheerful  murmur,  like  a  bountiful  soul  that 
gives  freely  still,  in  spite  of  all  the  neglect  and  ingratitude  of 
man. 

It  was  opposite  this  fountain  that  the  house  of  Madame 
Lavigne  stood.  Nathalie  gave  a  low  knock  at  the  door  ;  it 
opened  ere  long,  and  an  elderly,  morose-looking  female  ap- 
peared on  the  threshold.  Without  uttering  a  word,  or  opening 
the  door  an  inch  wider  than  strict  necessity  required,  she  ad- 
mitted Nathalie,  closed  and  bolted  the  door,  pointed  up  a  dark 
spiral  staircase,  and  entering  a  low  kitchen,  in  which  there 
seemed  to  reign  a  sort  of  doll  twilight,  she  resumed  her  culi- 
nary avocations.  Nathalie  ascended  the  staircase,  paused  on 
the  first-floor  landing,  and,  opening  a  door  before  her,  entered 
without  knocking. 

The  apartment  in  which  she  found  herselfwas  wide  and  ex- 
tremely low  ;  it  was  one  of  those  unhealthy  entresols  now  met 
with  only  in  old-fashioned  houses  ;  it  was  scrupulously  clean, 
but  every  thing,  from  the  antiquated  furniture  of  dark  walnut- 
tree  wood,  the  dingy  looking-glass  over  the  mantel-shelf,  and 
the  low  ceiling,  down  to  the  cold  bees-waxed  floor,  had  an  air 
of  gloom  and  discomfort.  A  doubtful  and  yellow  light  seemed 
to  penetrate  slowly  through  the  narrow  and  discolored  panes 
of  a  solitary  window,  but  it  won  no  reflection  back  from  the 
dark  surface  of  surrounding  objects,'  heavy  curtains  of  sombi*e 
hue,  which  fell  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor  in  long  folds,  added 
to  the  austere  and  meditative  gloom  of  the  place.  Partly 
shrouded  by  the  dark  folds  of  one  of  those  curtains,  and  seated 
within  the  narrow  circle  of  light  which  came  from  the  window, 
Bppeared  a  quiet  female  figure :  pale,  thin,  and  motionless,  she 
bent  over  her  work  in  subdued  harmony  with  all  around  her. 


108  NATHALIE. 

She  did  not  raise  lior  head,  or  tarn  round  on  hearing  Nathalie 
but  Uid  down  her  work,  carefully  put  it  by,  and  rose  so  slowlj 
that  she  had  not  yet  left  her  place,  when  the  young  girl  stood 
by  her  side.     This  was  Rose  Montolieu,  the  sister  of  Nathalie. 

It  would  have  been  diiEcult  to  find  two  beings  more  differ- 
ent than  the  two  sisters  as  they  now  stood  together,  in  the  dull 
light  of  the  narrow  window,  and  exchanged  a  quiet  greeting 
Dark-haired,  dark-eyed,  with  a  figure  rounded,  though  grace- 
ful and  slender,  with  the  soft  bloom  of  health  upon  hercheekSj 
and  the  clear  light  of  youth  in  her  eyes,  Nathalie  looked  as  gay 
and  sunny  a  vision  as  any  to  which  her  own  native  Provence 
ever  gave  birtli.  Not  all  the  chill  and  gloom  of  the  cold  room 
could  mar  that  fresh  and  poetic  beauty  :  the  warmth  and 
brightness  of  the  southern  sun  were  around  her  still. 

But  the  mournful  austerity  of  the  nortliern  home  in  which 
her  lonely  youth  had  been  spent,  had  fallen  early  on  Rose 
Montolieu.  She  had  worked  and  sewed  as  a  child  in  the  dull 
light  of  that  window,  and  in  that  dreary-looking  room ;  the 
court  below,  the  bubbling  fountain,  the  ancient  abbey,  and  the 
half-ruined  tower  had  daily  met  her  view  for  years,  and  for 
years  the  farthest  wall  of  the  cloister  and  an  old  church-yard 
which  it  inclosed,  but  where  none  were  buried  now,  had 
bounded  her  narrow  horizon.  Unless  on  Sundays  and  holy 
days,  when  she  heard  mass  and  vespers  in  the  abbey  church, 
Rose  seldom  or  ever  went  out.  Traces  of  this  sedentary  life 
were  impressed  on  her  whole  appearance.  She  was  not  ugly, 
nor  was  she  handsome,  for  either  would  have  been  striking, 
and  she  I  ^oked  pale  and  colorless  like  a  flower  reared  in  the 
shade.  Stie  was  tall,  rather  thin,  and  she  stooped  habitually  ; 
her  figure  would  have  been  good  but  for  its  total  want  of  grace  ; 
her  features  were  regular,  but  sallow  and  deficient  in  character 
or  marked  expression.  The  brow  indeed  told  of  intelligence, 
and  the  mouth,  closed  and  quiet,  of  reserve  ;  but  the  general 
outlines  were  pale  and  dim.  Flaxen-colored  hair  and  light 
blue  eyes  added  to  the  sickliness  of  her  appearance.  This 
eflFect  was  increased  by  the  best  point  in  her  face,  teeth  ot 
dazzling  whiteness  and  purity,  but  which  only  added  to  the 
wanness  of  her  whole  aspect,  when  her  pale  lips  parted  in  a 
faint  smile  of  rare  occurrence.  She  looked  upwards  of  thirty, 
though  she  was  in  reality  a  few  years  younger.  Never  waa 
the  name  of  Rose  bestowed  on  one  whose  pallid  look  was  more 
likely  to  suggest  a  painful  contrast  to  the  bloom  and  beauty  it 
implies. 


NATHALIE  100 

She  took  Nathalie's  extended  hand,  stooped  to  imprint  a 
kiss  on  her  forehead,  then  sat  down  again  and  resumed  her 
work.  Nathalie  took  off  her  bonnet  and  scarf,  seated  herself 
bv  her  sister's  side,  and  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Well,  Rose,  how  are  you  V  she  asked,  in  her  gay,  cheer- 
ful tones. 

"  Very  well,"  slowly  answered  Eose,  and  the  grave  melan- 
choly cadence  of  her  low  voice  contrasted  as  strikingly  with 
that  of  her  sister  as  did  her  personal  appearance.  She  worked 
va  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  then  looked  up  and  said,  '•  I  saw 
Mademoiselle  Dantin  yesterday." 

"But  you  do  not  judge  me  from  her  account?"  very 
quickly  returned  Nathalie. 

"  No,  I  shall  judge  you  from  your  own." 

Rose  laid  down  her  work,  and  looked  up  as  she  spoke  thus. 
This  was  a  trying  moment  for  Nathalie.  She  respected  her 
sister  more  than  she  loved  her, — she  knew  so  little  of  her. 
and  she  felt  so  differently.  She  complied  nevertheless  with 
the  desire  of  Rose,  and  related  to  her  all  that  had  happened 
before  and  since  her  departure  from  Mademoiselle  Dantin's 
school. 

"  I  suppose  it  could  not  be  helped,"  thoughtfully  said  her 
sister  when  she  had  concluded.  "  How  do  you  like  your  pre-, 
sent  position?" 

"  Very  much  indeed,  Rose  ;  it  is  a  pleasant  change  to  live- 
in  that  fine  old  chateau,  with  its  quaint  garden  and  pleasant 
grounds  ;  to  be  mistress  of  my  time,  and  not  to  be  teased  by 
tiresome  Mademoiselle  Dantin." 

Rose  glanced  at  the  limited  horizon  beyond  her  narrow 
window,  then  at  the  room  so  dark  and  dreary,  and  finally  at 
her  handsome  sister. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  her  low  tone,  '•  that  place  must  suit 
your  fancy  well ;  but  how  do  you  like  your  hosts  ?" 

"  They  are  kind,  though  a  little  peculiar  ;  the  Canoness  is 
simple  ^d  charming ;  she  calls  me  Petite,  though  I  could 
make  two  of  her.  Her  niece,  the  grand  lady,  was  proud  and 
patronizing  at  first,  but  has  much  improved  since  she  under- 
stands that  I  have  no  ambitious  designs  on  the  heir  of  the 
Sainville  race.  There  is  also  a  certain  impertinent  and  yet 
artistic  femme-de-chambrc — in  short,  all  is  wonderfully  differ- 
3nt  from  the  next-door  house." 

"  And  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ?" 
'•  I  have  seen  little  of  him." 


no  NArHALIB. 

"  But  what  do  you  think  of  him  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  of  him  at  all." 

She  spoke  coldly.     Rose  eyed  her  with  slow  surprise. 

'•  What  do  you  think  of  his  nephew  ?"  she  resumed. 

'•  That  he  is  handsome,  cool,  and  confident,"  replied  Na 
thalie,  smiling. 

"  You  think  him  handsome  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed  !   And  you  look  wonderfully  alarmed,  Rose." 

"  Do  you  love  him  ?"  asked  Rose,  almost  quickly. 

"■  Love  him  !"  echoed  Nathalie,  much  offended. 

"  I  mean,  do  you  think  you  will  like  him  some  day  ?" 

"  Really  I  cannot  tell." 

"  You  make  me  feel  anxious,"  said  Rose,  nervously  laying 
down  her  work ;  "  you  are  so  heedless,  and  that  young  man 
seems  to  me  so  unprincipled.  Were  his  intentions  ever  honor- 
able V 

'•  He  dared  not  have  had  any  other  ;  he  dared  not,  Rose,' 
cried  Nathalie,  almost  angrily  ;  her  look  kindled,  and  her 
cheek  flushed  in  a  moment. 

"  You  defend  him." 

'•  I  defend  myself.  Rose  !" 

Rose  fixed  her  mild,  earnest  glance  on  that  gay,  handsome 
face,  over  which  still  lingered  the  flush  of  wounded  pride. 

'■  I  will  not  advise  you,"  she  said,  "  for  you  do  not  follow 
advice  ;  but  I  have  seen  that  Charles  Marceau.  Handsome 
as  he  is,  I  like  him  not.  I  like  not  his  eye  nor  his  look.  Oh ! 
Nathalie,  to  the  woman  he  loves,  that  man,  so  young  in  years, 
so  old  in  aspect,  will  bring  nothing  but  sorrow,  and  to  the  wo- 
man who  loves  him  nothing  but  tenfold  woe.  Besides,  that 
family  is  so  proud  !  Oh  !  sister,  do  not  love  him ;  do  not, 
even  were  he  an  angel  of  light." 

"  And  he  is  more  like  an  angel  of  darkness.  Come,  Rose, 
do  not  loak  gi'ave.  I  am  here,  he  is  in  Paris ;  and  as  I  happen 
to  be  as  proud  as  all  the  Marceaus  and  the  Be  Sainvilles,  I 
promise  you  that,  even  were  he  an  angel  of  light,  thi#  danger 
ous  Charles  Marceau  shall  be  nought  to  me." 

Rose  looked  more  easy.     There  was  a  pause. 

"  Bo  you  like  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ?"  she  resumed,  ab- 
i5tractedly. 

'•'  What  matter.  Rose,  whether  I  do  or  not  ?  it  will  not 
trDuble  him  much." 

"  Bo  you  like  him  ?" 

Nathalie  colored,  hesitated.  •'  No,"  she  at  length  resolutely 
replied. 


NATHALIE.  1 1  i 

"  And  why  not  ?"  gravely  asked  her  sister. 

"  Because  I  do  not  like  hira." 

"  But  I  want  to  know  why." 

"  Well  then  because  he  is  disagreeable  and  proud." 

"  Do  you  mean  ill-tempered  ?" 

"  No,  he  rules  his  temper,  as  he  rules  every  thing, — with  tha 
iron  hand,  in  the  velvet  glove." 

'•  Then  what  do  you  dislike  him  for?" 

"  Dislike  is  a  strong  word.  I  care  not  for  him.  He  may 
be  harsh  and  proud ;  it  is  nought  to  me." 

"  Harsh  and  proud  !  this  argues  little  with  the  noble  story 
of  his  youth." 

"  And  pray,"  asked  Nathalie,  smiling  somewhat  ironically, 
"  what  do  you  see  so  very  noble  in  the  character  of  one  who 
devotes  the  best  part  of  existence  to  the  ambitious  task  of  win- 
ning back  a  lost  wealth  and  position,  and  who,  whilst  paying 
his  father's  debts,  does  not  lose  the  opportunity  of  making  a 
very  handsome  fortune  ?" 

"  Have  you  lost  your  old  admiration  for  the  heroic,  or  is 
this  mere  perversity  ?"  asked  Rose,  a  little  indignantly. 
'■  Monsieur  de  Sainville  is  only  too  good  to  think  about  you." 

"  Which  is  not  at  all,  Rose  ;  take  my  word  for  it." 

"  I  see,"  quietly  said  Rose,  "  he  has  hurt  your  pride,  or 
rather  your  vanity.  Foolish  girl !  Do  you  know  he  took  the 
trouble  to  call  on  Mademoiselle  Dantin  and  explain  this  matter 
to  her  ?  She  told  me  herself,  and  confessed  she  had  been  much 
too  hasty.  At  the  same  time  she  said  you  were  the  most  fiery 
and  vindictive  littlQ  thing  she  had  ever  met  with." 

"  Which  amiable  character  she  no  doubt  gave  to  Monsieur 
de  Sainville,"  observed  Nathalie,  coloring  and  looking  vexed. 
"  1  am  very  much  obliged  to  him  for  calling  on  my  greatest 
enemy,  and  fishing  out  my  faults  from  her." 

"  Fishing  out  your  faults,"  said  Rose  compassionately  ; 
'•  child,  what  interest  can  a  man  of  his  years  and  experience 
take  in  the  faults,  or  good  points,  of  a  girl  of  eighteen?" 

"  Very  well,"  rpolied  Nathalie,  evidently  nettled,  "  the  girl 
of  eighteen  cares  little  for  cither  his  years  or  experience  ;  that 
is  one  comfort." 

"  Early  this  morning,"  continued  Rose,  '•  Desiree  told  mo  a 
gentleman  wanted  me  below.  I  came  down  ;  it  was  Monsieur 
do  Sainville,  sitting  where  you  are  sitting  now." 

Nathalie  remained  mute.     Her  sister  resumed  : 

'  He  came  to  me.  as  your  only  relative,  to  apologize  and 


112  NATHALIE 

explain.  I  told  him  I  feared  your  sojourn  at  the  chateau 
would  excite  some  attention,  upon  which,  though  not  without 
much  hesitation,  he  suggested  that  you  should  remain  as  his 
aunt's  companion.  Still  I  objected,  but  when  he  asked  if  your 
sudden  disappearance  from  the  town  of  Sainville  would  not 
give  rise  to  more  disagreeable  conjectures,  I  could  not  but 
confess  it :  and  you  unfortunately  know  too  well  that  I  have 
no  home  to  offer  you.  You  must  stay  there  a  few  months  at 
least." 

Nathalie  looked  very  thoughtful. 

'•  Kose,"  she  said  at  length,  "  I  retract ;  he  is  kind  to  mo 
at  least.  You  called  me  perverse.  Oh  !  if  you  only  knew 
how  I  long  sometimes  to  yield  reverence  and  homage.  But 
enough  of  this  :  how  is  your  aunt  ?" 

"  Irrecoverably  blind,  and  she  knows  it.  She  is  coming 
down." 

Nathalie  did  not  say  how  little  she  desired  to  meet  Ma- 
dame Lavigne.  She  rose,  turned  towards  the  window,  and 
leaning  her  brow  against  the  glass  pane,  looked  out.  The 
brightness  of  the  blue  noonday  sky  beyond,  seemed  to  render 
the  court  more  dark  and  dull  than  usual,  yet  a  streak  of  sun- 
shine from  behind  the  old  abbey,  gleamed  through  the  thin 
foliage  of  the  pear-tree,  whilst  its  light  shadow  waved  to  and 
fro  over  the  little  fountain.  Nathalie  thought  of  the  warm  old 
garden  of  Sainville,  and  the  thought  made  both  court  and 
fountain  look  more  cold  and  chill  than  ever.  She  glanced  at 
her  sister.  Rose  was  bending  once  more  over  her  task,  silent 
and  motionless.  "  And  this,"  thought  Nathalie,  "  is  her  home, 
her  life ;  and  were  she  to  live  another  century,  I  verily 
believe  she  would  b^  found  in  that  same  place ;  the  patient 
slave  of  that  old  tyrant." 

The  door  opened,  and  Madame  Lavigne  entered,  sup- 
ported by  Desiree,  who,  near  her  mistress,  looked  gentle  and 
benignant. 

It  was  not  age,  th'^ugh  she  was  old,  that  gave  so  harsh  and 
repulsive  a  look  to  the  aunt  of  Rose.  The  Ioav  brow  needed 
not  the  furrows  of  years  to  be  stern  and  forbidding;  and 
wrinkles  could  scarcely  add  to  the  sour  expression  of  the 
mouth,  with  its  downward  and  contemptuous  curve:  notwith- 
standing the  dulness  of  the  sightless  eyes,  the  expression  of 
the  whole  face  was  acute  and  shrew'd  ;  but  it  was  the  shrewd- 
ness of  cunning,  not  of  intellect.  On  seeing  her  enter,  Rose 
got  up,  drew  a  large  arm-chair  forward,  and  helped  her  to  be 
seated. 


rC.ATHALIE  113 

"  Do  cot  handle  me,''  snappishly  cxchtimcd  Madaiao  Lj»- 
ngne  ;  "you  know  I  cannot  endure  it." 

Rose  withdrew  in  silence. 

"  You  might  give  mc  the  pillow  whilst  you  were  about  it," 
said  her  aunt,  in  the  same  ill-tempered  tone ;  "  but  that  is  like 
you — officious  and  doing  nothing." 

Rose  took  a  pillow  from  a  chair,  shook  it,  and  placed  it 
behind  her  aunt,  who  only  waved  her  impatiently  away. 

"  Enough,"  she  briefly  said,  "I  hate  fondling;  I  know  what 
it  means.  Desiree,"  she  added  in  a  soft  civil  tone,  as  the  patient 
Rose  returned  to  her  seat,  and  resumed  her  work,  "  is  my  chop 
ready  V 

"  Not  yet,"  was  the  reply,  more  laconic  than  respectful. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  of  it,  when  it  is  ready  :  not  that  I  mean  to 
hurry  you,  but  I  shall  be  glad  of  it." 

"  Of  course,"  returned  Desiree,  with  a  disdainful  toss  of  the 
head  ;  but  she  did  not  go,  or  seem  in  any  hurry.  She  loitered 
about  the  place,  wiped  away  a  few  particles  of  dust  from  the 
furniture  with  her  apron,  opened  the  window,  closed  it  again, 
and  at  length  condescended  to  leave  the  room.  Nathalie 
turned  round  to  resume  her  seat:  in  an  instant  the  features  of 
the  blind  woman  were  alive  with  a  strange  expression  of  min- 
gled anger  and  alarm : 

"  Who  is  that?  You  have  got  some  one  with  you,  Rose. 
Who  is  that?" 

Nathalie  laughed  gayly. 

"  Oh  !  merry  little  Nathalie,  who  is  always  laughing,  and 
always  makes  one  laugh,"  said  Madame  Lavigne,  with  an  attempt 
to  smile  graciously  ;  ''  where  is  she?" 

"  Here,"  replied  Nathalie,  rising,  and  approaching  her. 

"Ay,  here  she  is,"  continued  the  blind  woman,  stretching 
out  her  hand  towards  the  young  girl ;  "  here  she  is,  with  that 
cheerful  voice,  which  does  one  good  to  hear.  Oh  !  dear  child, 
if  you  were  my  niece,  you  would  amuse  mc  in  my  old  age,  with- 
out interested  motives.  But  there  is  one  comfori,"  she  added 
after  a  pause,  "  I  have  only  an  annuity  which  dies  with  me  ;  let 
those  think  the  contrary  who  will." 

Nathalie  glanced  at  her  sister,  but  if  Rose  had  been  as 
devoid  of  hearing  as  her  aunt  was  of  sight,  she  could  not  have 
vemained  more  unmoved. 

"  I  suppose,"  thought  Nathalie.  "  poor  Rose  la  accustomed 
to  it." 

"Well,"  said  the  blind  woman,  in  a  slightly  impatient  taii^j 


114  NATHALIE 

thougli  it  was  conciliatory  still,  '-how  will  my  merry  little 
Nathalie  amuse  her  poor  old  friend  to-day  ?  Will  she  sing  ono 
of  the  funny  Provencal  songs,  or  take  off  that  cross  Mademoi- 
selle Dantin  ?  Oh  !  I  forget  that  she  is  at  the  chateau  now, — 
companion,  governess,  what  is  it?  Then  I  suppose  it  is  that 
odd  Monsieur  de  Sainville  she  will  take  off;  come,  let  us  hear." 

She  assumed  a  listening  attitude ;  but  Nathalie  briefly 
replied  : 

"  Monsieur  de  Sainville  is  not  at  all  odd  ;  and  as  he  hap- 
pens to  be  my  best  friend  now,  I  shall  not  take  him  off." 

She  turned  to  move  away,  but  the  blind  woman  held  her 
fast. 

"  So  he  is  your  best  friend,"  she  said,  with  a  peculiar  smile. 
"  Ah  !  Well,  girls  of  eighteen  might  choose  older  men  for 
their  best  friends." 

Nathalie  colored,  but  did  not  deign  to  reply. 

"  And  is  that  best  friend  of  yours  very  kind  V  continued 
Madame  Lavigne. 

"  Very  kind." 

"  True:  best  friends  of  thirty-five  or  forty — that  is  his  age, 
is  it  not  ? — are  always  kind,  especially " 

"  Madame  Lavigne,"  interrupted  Nathalie,  '•  you  will  please 
not  to  talk  so.     I  will  not  hear  it." 

The  blind  woman  laughed — a  short,  sour  laugh. 

"  Little  spitfire,  that  is  how  you  used  to  go  on  with  poor 
Mademoiselle  Dantin  ;  that  is  how  you  will  go  on  with  the  best 
friend  ere  long.  Heaven  help  him,  poor  man  !  Oh  !  you  need 
not  tap  your  foot  so  impatiently,  I  know  I  am  teazing  you ; 
but,  child,  you  are  nothing  unless  you  are  teazed :  I  know, 
when  I  could  see,  yoi^  never  looked  half  so  pretty  as  at  those 
times.  Ah !  I  dare  say  you  are  smiling  now ;  but  you  need 
not,  you  foolish  child;  the  beauty  of  southern  women  never 
lasts :  they  are  old  at  twenty-five.  Now,  if  you  were  like 
Rose,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  "  pale,  ugly " 

"  Rose  is  not  ugly,"  angrily  interrupted  Nathalie  ;  '•  she  is 
pale ;  but  if  she  had  only  exercise  and  fresh  air,  she  would  be 
quite  blooming.  She  has  what  an  aunt  of  hers  never  had, — 
nice,  gentle  features.  Of  me  you  may  say  what  you  like  ;  but 
I  warn  you  I  will  not  hear  a  word  against  Rose,  who  has 
enough  to  endure  from  your  tyranny." 

She  spoke  hotly,  and  her  eyes  sparkled,  half  with  anger, 
half  with  tears.  The  ill-tempered  spite  of  Madame  Lavigne 
against  poor  Rose,  though  familiar  to  her,  always  inspired  her 


NATHAl  tE.  115 

with  the  same  indignant  surprise ;  for  to  a  generous  heart,  in- 
justice, however  old,  seems  ever  new. 

The  vehement  reproaches  of  the  young  girl,  uttered  in  a 
rapid  tone,  which  rendered  her  southern  accent  more  apparent, 
only  drew  a  sarcastic  smile  from  the  blind  woman. 

"  So,  I  am  a  tyrant,"  she  said,  as  if  rather  flattered  by 
the  imputation.  "I  am;  I  know  it:  from  a  child  I  would 
have  my  way.  Rose  can  leave  me  if  she  likes,  and  she  re- 
mains  " 

"  Because  she  is  too  good,"  roundly  interrupted  Nathalie. 

"  Oh  !  she  is,  is  she?  Well,  talking  of  the  best  friend  has 
put  you  out  of  temper.  Sing  me  one  of  the  Basque  songs, 
whilst  waiting  for  that  chop,  which  I  think  Desiree  will  never 
bring." 

Pity  for  Madame  Lavigne's  infirmity,  and  the  desire  of 
lessening  the  weary  burden  Rose  had  to  bear,  generally  induced 
Nathalie  to  endure  with  good-humored  patience  the  covert 
irony  concealed  under  the  blind  woman's  kindness ;  but  on  this 
day,  instead  of  complying  with  the  request  of  Madame  La- 
vigne,  whose  side  she  had  left,  she  turned  her  flushed  face  to- 
wards the  window,  and  remained  obstinately  silent. 

"  So  we  are  offended,"  said  Madame  Lavigue,  after  waiting 
awhile ;  "  we  do  not  like  allusions  to  the  best  friend.  Ah  ! 
well " 

The  entrance  of  Desiree,  bringing  in  the  long  expeoto>T. 
chop,  checked  what  she  was  going  to  add.  Rose  took  the  tray 
from  the  servant,  placed  it  on  a  small  table,  cut  the  meat,  ar- 
ranged every  thing,  and.  having  brought  the  table  near  to  her 
aunt's  chair,  resumed  her  own  seat  in  silence. 

Madame  Lavigne  ate  a  few  morsels,  and  frowned. 

'•  It  is  not  done  enough,"  said  she,  crossly. 

This  remark  having  elicited  no  corresponding  observation, 
she  added,  in  a  sharper  tone : 

"Did  you  hear,  Rose  ?     My  chop  is  not  done  enough.'"' 

"Will  you  have  another,  aunt?" 

"  Another,  when  meat  is  at  the  price  it  is  !  Another  chop ! 
Is  the  girl  mad  ?" 

"  Then  what  is  to  be  done,  aunt  ?" 

"  Time  to  ask,  indeed  !  What  is  to  be  done?  You  might 
Bay  what  should  have  been  done  ?" 

Rose  made  no  reply. 

Madame  Lavigne  ate  a  few  morsels  more,  then  laid  down 
her  plate  indignantly. 


116  iXATHALIi;. 

"You  have  the  worst  heart  in  the  world."  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  sort  of  snarl ;  "  here  I  keep  telling  you  that  my  chop  iff 
not  done  enough,  which  implies  that  I  shall  feel  miserable  foi 
the  whole  day,  and  you  never  so  much  as  say  you  are  sorry  for 
it.  Did  I  adopt  and  rear  you  up  at  my  own  expense  for  this, 
you  ungrateful  thing?  To  punish  you,  I  shall  not  touch  a 
morsel  more  ;  I  shall  not  eat  another  bit  to-day.  There,  take 
the  plate  away ;  and  ring  the  bell." 

llose  complied.  The  sour-faced  Desireo  made  her  ap* 
peai'anco. 

"Well,"  said  she  sharply,  "what  am  I  rung  up  for?  I 
warn  you,"  she  added,  turning  towards  her  mistress,  "  I  am 
not  going  to  trot  up  and  down  at  your  pleasure.  What  do 
you  want  ?" 

"There,  do  not  be  cross,"  soothingly  said  Madame  La- 
vigne  ;  "  but  you  see,  Desiree,  the  chop  was  very  good, — very 
good  indeed,  only  not  quite  done." 

"Not  done  enough?"  indignantly  echoed  the  servant 
"  You  dare  tell  me  I  do  not  know  how  to  cook  a  chop — a  mut- 
ton chop  !  Then  depend  upon  it  that  is  the  last  chop  I  shall 
cook  for  you." 

"  My  dear  Desireo  !" 

"  And  we  shall  see  how  matters  will  go  on  when  I  am 
away.  How  much  more  candle  will  bo  burned  in  tiie  week ; 
how  much  more  wood  it  will  take  to  fill  the  cellar  ;  with  oil  for 
the  lamp,  and  money  for  every  thing.  Go  your  ways ;  another 
shall  cook  your  chops  soon  ;  ay,  and  help  to  eat  them  too." 

"  Desiree  !"  exclaimed  Madame  Lavigne,  utterly  distressed 
at  this  lamentable  picture  of  household  ruin,  "  you  must  not 
go.  I  cannot  afford  to  let  you  go.  You  are  the  most  honest 
creature  breathing ;  I  could  trust  you  with  every  cupboard  in 
the  house." 

"  Every  cupboard  !"  ironically  ejaculated  Desiree,  "  as  if 
there  was  what  would  fatten  a  mouse  in  any  of  your  cupboards." 

"  Give  me  the  chop,"  submissively  said  Madame  Lavigne  ; 
"  I  will  eat  it." 

"  Eat  it !  Do  not ;  it  would  poison  you.  Ah  !  well,  my 
chops  will  not  trouble  you  long." 

Madame  Lavigne  wrung  her  hands. 

"  Eose  !  Nathalie,  my  dear  child  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  do  some- 
body give  me  that  chop  :  I  want  it ;  I  have  not  had  my  dinner. 
There,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh,  as  Rose  complied,  and  she  ate 
hastily  what  was  on  the  plate  ;  "  there,  I  am  sure  you  cannot 
nora plain  of  me,  Desiree." 


:<ATI1AL1L-.  117 

But  Deslree  was  not  mollified.  People  iiiiulit  eat  lier  chops, 
or  not  eat  them — she  did  not  care.  Thank  heaven,  she  was 
independent,  and  need  not  be  any  one's  servant.  She  might 
sit  with  her  arras  folded  all  day  long,  if  she  liked  ;  ay,  and 
have  a  house  of  her  own,  too.  In  vain  Madame  Lavigne  apo- 
logized, coaxed,  and  entreated  ;  Dcsiree  was  not  to  be  moved, 
and  after  once  more  recapitulating  her  wrongs,  and  dwelling 
with  scornful  emphasis  on  the  fact  of  the  chop  not  being  done 
enough,  she  left  the  room,  with  a  sneer  at  the  waste  and  ruin 
to  be  perpetrated  by  the  blind  woman's  future  servant. 

The  lamentations  of  Madame  Lavigne  were  loud  and  deep. 
She  hated  that  old  Desiree,  she  did ;  but  she  could  not  dc 
without  her. 

•'  You  see  what  your  cruel  want  of  sympathy  has  done,  Rose, 
she  exclaimed,  throwing,  as  usual,  all  the  blame  on  her  patient 
niece.  '•  You  are  the  cause  of  it  all.  That  old  Desiree  is  as 
sour  as  vinegar,  but  I  could  trust  her  with  untold  gold.  Go 
down  to  her  directly ;  she  has  a  stupid  sort  of  liking  for  you  : 
and  you  may  tell  her,  too,  that  I  shall  make  her  a  present  one 
of  these  days." 

Rose  left  her  scat.  Nathalie,  who  now  stood  ready  to  de- 
part, followed  her  sister  out  of  the  room  ;  she  folttoo  indignant 
to  address  Madame  Lavigne  with  even  common  civility. 

"  Wait  for  me  here,"  said  Rose,  pausing  in  the  passage,  and 
entering  the  dark  kitchen,  where  Desiree  had  retired  to  brood 
over  her  wrongs. 

Rose  addressed  the  servant.  Nathalie  could  not  hear  what 
her  sister  said,  for  she  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  and  stood  turned 
away  from  her  ;  but  she  heard  Desiree's  reply. 

"  Stay,  Mamzelle  Rose  !  Not  L  She  shall  have  another 
servant  soon,  and  one  who  will  rob  her,  I  hope." 

Still  Rose  urged  something,  which  did  not  reach  Nathalie's 
car. 

''  A.nd  why  should  I  stay,''  sharply  asked  Desiree,  "  to  please 
that  selfish  old  creature  ?" 

"  She  has  had  much  to  try  her,"  said  Rose,  gently ;  "  her 
husband  beat  and  ill-used  her." 

"  Served  her  right,"  muttered  Desiree. 

"  The  son  whom  she  loved  robbed  and  deserted  her :  and 
now  she  is  a  blind,  infirm,  and  aged  woman." 

"  And  is  that  a  reason  why  she  should  torment  every  one 
around  her,  and  make  a  martyr  of  you?  I  am  more  than  a 
match  for  her  ;  but  you — so  patient,  so  enduring  !     It  has  often 


118  NATlI.VLrE. 

made  my  blood  boi]  to  see  how  she  used  you ;  aud,  believe  me^ 
I  have  avenged  you  many  a  time ;  but  that  is  over  now." 

"  Then  you  will  go,"  said  Rose. 

"Why  should  I  stay?  she  hates  me  in  her  heart,  and  you 
are  so  quiet,  that  you  will  not  miss  me  much." 

"  And  so,"  continued  Rose,  "  the  face  that  has  been  a  fa- 
miliar one  for  so  many  years,  shall  be  replaced  by  that  of  a 
stranger." 

Desiree  peered  wistfully  into  her  face. 

"Will  you  miss  me,  then,  when  I  am  gone?"  she  asked, 
"  will  you  miss  the  cross  old  woman,  who  never  had  a  kind 
word  for  you,  nor  for  any  body  else  ?" 

"  I  shall  miss  you.  Desiree,"  was  the  low  reply. 

"  Then  you  do  care  for  me,  after  all ;  quiet  as  you  are,  you 
do  care  for  me.     Ah  !  Mamzelle  Rose,  how  can  this  be?" 

"  Because,  God  help  me,  I  have  had  few  or  none  to  love," 
exclaimed  Rose,  in  a  tone  of  deep  and  involuntary  sadness. 
"  Will  you  stay  ?"  she  added,  after  a  pause. 

Desiree  looked  at  her ;  then  turned  away  abruptly. 

"  I  shall  see,"  she  said,  in  a  rough  tone,  aud  evidently 
wishing  to  close  the  conversation. 

Rose  left  her  without  pressing  the  subject  further ;  she  un- 
derstood Desiree,  her  temper,  and  her  ways,  and  knew  that  the 
point  was  won. 

"  Oh  !  Rose,  Rose,"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  as  her  sister  stood 
once  more  by  her  side,  "is  this  to  live?" 

"  It  is  the  will  of  God,"  replied  Ro.'je,  in  a  low  tone. 

She  said  this  very  simply,  without  false  humility  or  empty 
denial  of  sacrifice,  but  like  one  to  whom  that  holy  will  had  be- 
come thr  daily  sanctification  of  existence.  And  as  she  spoke, 
a  smile  of  singular  sweetness  broke  over  her  pale  features, 
whilst  something  of  the  light  which  illumines  the  martyr's 
glance  passed  in  her  eyes ;  the  lingering  and  dearly-bought  tri- 
umph of  a  spirit  nature  had  made  proud,  and  which  will  and 
faith  alone  had  rendered  meek. 

Nathalie  said  nothing,  but  taking  her  sister's  thin  hand,  she 
reverently  raised  it  to  her  lips  as  they  parted. 


NATHALIE.  119 


CHAPTER  IX. 


Nathalie  truly  loved  her  sister  ;  but,  from  witnessing  such 
scenes,  she  always  entered  Madame  Lavigne's  house  with  re- 
gret, and  loft  it  with  relief.  She  now  breathed  more  freely,  as 
the  gloomy  door  closed  behind  her ;  and  when  she  reached  the 
old  chateau,  standing  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  in  the  clear  sun- 
light, with  its  airy  turrets  rising  against  the  blue  sky, — when 
she  entered  the  broad  avenue,  with  its  stately  elms,  and  passed 
beneath  the  majestic  portico,  Nathalie  forgot  the  doubts  and 
fears  of  Rose.  "  What  matter  about  the  future,"  she  thought ; 
"  it  is  good  to  be  here  !" 

She  found  the  Canoncss  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  lime-tree 
avenue,  and  engaged  in  a  very  close  conversation  with  Aman- 
da. She  looked  pleased,  though  a  little  disconcerted,  on  see- 
ing Nathalie.   The  diacreet  fenwie-de-chambre  quietly  retired. 

"  Do  you  feel  too  tired  for  a  walk  over  the  grounds,  this 
iwely  morning?"  said  Aunt  Radegonde. 

'■  I  never  feel  tired,"  replied  Nathalie,  taking  her  arm,  with 
a  smile. 

But  the  Canoness  was  not  ready  yet ;  there  was  an  im- 
mense shawl  to  be  wrapped  round  her  person,  to  fall  down  in 
graceful  folds,  like  a  theatrical  mantle,  and  sweep  the  alley 
like  a  train,  before  she  could  think  of  moving  a  step. 

"  Amanda  is  a  nice  girl,"  said  the  Canoness,  as  they  took  a 
narrow  path,  with  a  row  of  tall  trees  on  one  side,  and  a 
smoothly-shaved  lawn  extending  far  away  on  the  other,  "  but 
she  must  be  kept  at  a  distance.  Take  an  elderly  woman's  ad- 
vice, child ;  never  make  free  with  servants." 

"  I  must  do  like  you,"  said  Nathalie,  smiling  demurely. 

"  Exactly,"  answered  the  Canoness,  with  a  complacent  nod. 
"  Entre  nous,  Petite,  I  do  pique  myself  on  the  art  of  keeping 
subordinates  at  a  distance,  without  hauteur — that  would  be 
unkind — but  with  that  sense  of  dignity  which  is  incumbent  on 
one  who  may  be  said  to  be  the  head  of  the  family." 

Nathalie  glanced  down  at  the  insignificant  little  figure  by 
her  side ;  but  Aunt  Radegonde  was  quite  in  earnest,  and  feel- 
ingly lamented  the  serious  responsibility  fate  had  thrown  upon 
her. 

"We  are  quite  alone  to  day,"  resumed  the  Canoness,  with 
one  of  her  abrupt  transitions.     "  Rosalie  is  gone  to  spend  a 


12C  ,  NATHALIE 

few  daj-s  with  the  De  Jussacs.     Armaud  is  gone  also,"  she 
added,  after  a  pause. 

"  With  Madame  Marccau  ?"  quickly  said  Nathalie. 

"No;  to  Marmont.  To  say  the  truth,  Petite,  he  does  not 
care  much  ahout  the  De  Jussacs ;  but  do  not  say  I  told  you 
so ; — it  is  quite  a  secret.  I  feel  rather  tired  ;  shall  we  rest 
awhile  ?" 

A  bench  stood  near  them,  beneath  a  sycamore ;  they  sat 
d  own. 

"  Then  we  are  quite  alone  to-day  ?"  carelessly  said  Nathalie. 

"  Quite.     Armand  does  not  come  home  to  dinner." 

"  How  often  you  are  deprived  of  his  company ;  you  must 
feel  it  very  much." 

The  Canoness  coughed. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  she  slowly  replied. 

"  And  how  harassing  those  frequent  journeys  must  provo 
to  Monsieur  de  Sainviile." 

"  Not  at  all,  Petite.  Armand's  property  is  at  Marmont, 
and  he  likes  to  superintend  it  himself;  besides,  he  is  rather 
restless." 

"  Restless,  Marraine  !  and  his  manner  is  so  quiet !" 

"  Quiet !"  echoed  the  Canoness.  shaking  her  head.  "  Ah, 
well !" 

She  closed  her  eyes,  and  pursed  up  her  lips.  Nathalie  said 
nothing ;  she  was  looking  thoughtfully  at  the  little  lake  lying 
beneath  the  old  cedar-tree,  beyond  the  lawn  before  her. 

"  My  dear,"  suddenly  asked  the  Canoness,  "  did  you  say 
that  Armand  was  quiet?" 

"  I  only  spoke  of  my  impression." 

"  Ah  !  but  it  is  very  dangerous  to  have  wrong  impressions, 
especially  about  the  tempers  of  people  with  whom  we  live ;  and 
though  I  am  singularly  reserved — Nature  was  in  a  reserved 
mood  when  she  fashioned  me,  Petite — and  never  open  my  lips 
on  family  matters,  I  think  it  proper  to  set  you  right  in  this 

point.    Armand  is  not  at  all  quiet,  my  dear  ;  he  is  rather " 

She  hesitated. 

"  Irritable  ?"  suggested  Nathalie. 
"  No  ;  for  It  is  most  difficult  to  vex  him." 
"  Passionate,  perhaps  ?" 

'•  He  never  gets  into  a  passion  ;  but  he  is  not  quiet.  Some 
think  him  a  little  stern ;  I  do  not  at  all,  of  course  ;  but  being 
hia  aunt,  it  is  not  likely  he  would  presume  to  show  any  thing 
of  the  kind  with  me.     But  the  other  day,  when  you  spoke  to 


NATHALIE.  121 

him   in   the  library,  did  you  not   think  him  rather  severe. 
Petite?' 

And  the  little  Canoness,  inclining  her  head  on  one  side, 
looked  wonderfully  interested. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  calmly  answered  Nathalie. 

"  Ah,  well !  I  dare  say  not ;  indeed,  my  dear,  if  I  ask,  it  is 
solely  for  your  benefit.  Take  it  as  a  rule,  that  reserved  people, 
like  me,  are  never  inquisitive.  Also,  if  I  speak  of  Armand,  it 
is  merely  to  enlighten  you  ;  and  though  you  are  very  reserved, 
t  can  see  that  you  understand  me." 

'•  I  fear  I  am  very  dull,  madame,  for  I  assure  you  I  did  not 
understand " 

"  I  am  a  little  deaf  to-day,"  quickly  interrupted  the  Cano- 
ness, "  but  do  not  mind  repeating.  As  I  was  saying,  Armand's 
cold  manner  signifies  nothing ; — he  can  be  very  kind,  very 
generous." 

"  Kindness  and  generosity  are  his  characteristics,  then," 
said  Nathalie,  almost  involuntarily. 

"  Yes,"  hesitatingly  replied  the  Canoness.  "  You  see  he 
has  a  very  strong  sense  of  duty,  iron  will,  and  some  pride,  and 
so But,  apropos,  this  reminds  me  of  what  I  said  yester- 
day, about  not  refusing  any  little  civility  Armand  might  offer 
you.  I  had  a  motive  for  that,  as  I  have  for  every  thing  I  say. 
I  could  see  by  his  manner,  he  felt  friendly  towards  you.  I 
learned  this  morning  that  my  penetration  had  not  deceived 
me." 

Nathalie  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,  this  morning,  Armand  sent  me  a  very  respectful 
little  note,  requesting  the  favor  of  an  interview.  I  granted  it, 
of  course.  He  came  to  my  boudoir  and  in  that  deferential 
manner,  with  which  he  always  addresses  me,  he  asked  my 
opinion  of  you :  '  Did  I  think  you  were  happy  here  ?  Was 
not  the  place  too  dull  for  so  young  a  girl — almost  a  child  V  " 

"  A  child !"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  coloring ;  "  why,  I  am 
eighteen." 

"  You  only  look  sixteen  ;  so  it  comes  to  the  same." 
_  "  But  to  look  younger  docs   not  take  away  actual  years," 
quickly  said  Nathalie. 

"  Yes,  it  does,"  quite  as  quickly  rejoined  the  Canoness. 
•*  A  friend — a  very  particular  friend  of  mine,  looks  full  ten 
years  younger  than  her  real  age ;  I  contend  that  she  is  ten 
years  younger." 

"  But  that  friend  of  yours  is  not  old." 

6 


122  :NV.TiiAL,iK. 

"  She  is  not  very  young.  But,  Petite,  take  my  advice,  da 
not  use  the  word  old  :  it  is  not  refined.  '  An  old  woman  !'  can 
any  thing  be  more  odious  :  always  say,  '  elderly,' — '  an  elderly 
lady.'  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  Armand  asked  me  '  if  the  place 
was  not  too  dull  for  so  young  a  girl,  almost  a  child,  and  one  too 
who  seemed  even  more  gay  and  thoughtless  than  most  girls  ol 
her  age.'  " 

"  Thanks  to  Aunt  Radegonde's  reserve,  I  am  likely  to  hear 
a  very  flattering  account  of  myself,"  thought  Nathalie,  with  a 
rising  color  and  somewhat  scornful  look. 

The  Canoness  continued.  "  I  told  him  that  I  thought  you 
quite  happy,  but  that  it  would  be  best  to  ask  you ;  that  I  had 
no  doubt  you  would  answer  truly.  '  Quite  n.y  opinion,'  he  re- 
plied ;  '  I  saw  from  the  first  she  was  a  very  artless  little  thing.' 
Chere  Petite,  I  was  so  pleased.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  likes 
candor  above  all  things,  and  detests  equivocating  people.  But 
though  I  had  solved  his  doubts,  he  was  not  satisfied ;  I  could 
see  better  than  he  could  himself  what  he  wished ; — men  do 
not  understand  those  things  ;  and  so  I  suggested  that  you 
should  stay  here  as  my  companion :  he  agreed,  provided  you 
consented.  So,  Petite,  it  rests  with  you  now  to  say,  yes  or 
no."     She  looked  up  at  the  young  girl  with  evident  anxiety. 

Nathalie's  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  earth.  She  raised  them 
at  last,  and  there  was  something  in  her  look  and  in  the  smile 
that  now  parted  her  lips,  which  Aunt  Radegonde,  with  all  her 
penetration,  could  not  fathom. 

"  You  are  good, — truly  good,"  said  she,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Then  you  consent ;  I  am  so  glad.  Come,  I  feel  quite 
rested,  and  as  you  are  never  tired,  we  will  go  on.  Petite,  you 
look  pensive  ?"  she  added,  as  they  resumed  their  walk. 

'•  Madame " 

"  How  often  must  I  tell  you  to  call  me,  Marraine." 

"  Well,  then,  dear  Marraine,"  said  Nathalie,  laying  her 
hand  on  the  arm  of  the  Canoness  ;"  allow  me  to  ask  if  Madame 
Marceau  knows  of  this  ?" 

"  Madame  Marceau !"  echoed  the  Canoness,  drawing  up 
her  little  figure  with  an  air  of  ofi'ended  dignity ;  "  and  what 
has  my  niece  to  do  with  my  affairs !  If  instead  of  one  com- 
panion I  chose  to  have  two, — ay,  or  twenty,  Rosalie  would  not 
presume  to  interfere." 

Nathalie  smiled,  and  made  an  apology  which  immediately 
soothed  the  placable  Canoness,  who  assured  her  that  Madame 
Marceau  would  be  quite  as  much  pleased  as  herself,  or  Mon< 
Biour  da  Sainville. 


NATHALIE.  123 

"  Then  Monsieur  de  Sainville  is  pleased  V' 

"  Yes,  Petite ;  he  said  he  did  not  think  I  should  regret  this 
plan.  '  I  am  sure  I  shall  not,'  I  replied  ;  '  she  is  a  good  child  ; 
I  saw  it  instantly,  and  my  first  glance  never  deceives  me.' 
'  Yes.'  said  he,  '  she  has  a  pleasant  face  ;  and  though  the  old 
schoolmistress  wished  me  to  believe  her  of  a  most  violent  and 
fiery  temper,  I  think  for  my  part  she  is  only  a  little  petu- 
lant.' " 

"  Only  a  little  petulant !"  echoed  Nathalie,  stopping  short 
in  the  path  with  indignant  amazement. 

'•  Yes.  So  you  see  he  has  quite  a  favorable  opinion  of  you  : 
otherwise  you  may  believe  I  should  never  have  repeated  all 
this." 

'•  Indeed,  I  am  much  obliged  to  Monsieur  de  Sainville,"  re- 
plied Nathalie,  speaking  very  fast.  "  A  child,  more  gay  and 
thoughtless  than  most  girls  of  her  age, — an  artless  little  thing 
with  a  pleasant  face,  and  only  a  little  petulant !  How  flatter- 
ing !" 

"  Yes,  Petite,  he  would  not  speak  so  of  every  one ;  for  he 
is  rather  bard  to  please." 

'•  Indeed !" 

"  Yes,  there  is  beautiful  Mademoiselle  de  Jussac,  whom  he 
scarcely  allows  to  be  pretty.  When  Rosalie  talks  of  her  wit 
and  talent,  he  says  he  cannot  discover  that  she  has  much  of 
either ;  he  confesses,  however,  that  she  has  the  quality  he  most 
prizes  in  woman  ;  gentleness." 

"  Indeed  !"  again  said  Nathalie.     There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  Here  is  the  green-house,"  said  Aunt  Radegonde ;  '•  are 
you  fond  of  flowers.  Petite  ?" 

A  sudden  turning  of  the  path  brought  them  within  view  of 
the  green-house,  as  she  spoke.  It  was  a  light  elegant  rotunda, 
supported  by  pillars,  and  standing  on  a  flight  of  circular  steps 
in  the  centre  of  a  small  green  lawn.  A  grove  of  firs  and 
cypress-trees  sheltered  it  from  the  northern  winds  ;  it  shone 
amidst  their  dark  foliage  like  a  white  Grecian  temple,  sacred 
to  the  worship  of  some  solitary  wood-nymph.  One  of  the  wide 
arched  windows  was  open  to  admit  to  the  flowers  and  shrubs 
within,  the  warm  sun  of  noon  and  the  soft  breezes  of  the 
s-outh. 

"  Rut  this  does  not  look  at  all  like  a  green-house,"  exclaim- 
ed Nathalie,  recognizing  the  temple-like  building  she  had  seeu 
from  her  window. 

"  It  was  a  ball-room  formerly  ;  and  the  first  ball  given  there 


121  NATHALIE. 

vras  opened  by  my  aunt  Mademoiselle  Adelaide  de  Sainvilla 
when  I  was  quite  a  child.  Chere  Petite,  it  was  very  beauti* 
ful !  The  trees  around  were  all  hung  with  lamps,  and  within, 
the  hall  was  lit  so  brilliantly,  that  it  looked  here  like  a  blaze 
of  light.  The  orchestra,  hidden  in  a  recess  of  foliage,  played 
the  sweetest  music  imaginable ;  whilst  lovely  ladies  and  gal- 
lant-looking gentlemen  moved  along  in  their  stately  minuets, 
— not  foolish  quadrilles.  And  I  verily  believe  I  never  saw 
such  handsome  women  as  I  beheld  that  night.  There  was  tall 
and  handsome  Mademoiselle  d'Albe,  with  eyes  brighter  than 
her  jewels,  and  a  handsome  neck  she  used  to  arch  so  proudly. 
She  walked  up  and  down  the  hall  in  an  interval  of  the  dance, 
with  a  whole  bevy  of  gentlemen  hanging  about  her,  for  she  was 
witty  as  she  was  beautiful ;  poor  thing !  they  say  she  walked 
to  the  guillotine  with  the  same  stately  step.  Then  there  were 
the  thi-ee  Mesderaoiselles  de  Moustier,  all  in  white  and  lovely 
as  angels ;  and  Madame  d'Estang,  who  danced  so  well  and  had 
the  prettiest  foot  ever  seen ;  and  Madame  de  Merville,  whose 
voice  sounded  like  a  silver  bell ;  and  many  more  besides  :  but 
handsome  as  they  all  were,  my  aunt  Adelaide  was  the  queen 
of  the  ball." 

"  Was  she  so  very  beautiful?'' 

"  Beautiful !  Ah  !  Petite,  women  are  not  what  they  once 
were.  There  certainly  never  lived  a  lovelier  creature  than  my 
aunt.  There  was  grace  in  every  one  of  her  movements,  and 
a  charm  beyond  every  thing  in  her  look  and  her  smile.  She 
was  rather  dark,  but  her  eyes  were  so  deep  and  soft.  In  short, 
you  may  judge  of  her  beauty,  Petite,  by  the  fact  that  Monsieur 
de  Sainville,  though  so  critical,  admits  it.  I  have  a  portrait 
of  her  up  stairs,  which  I  w'.ll  show  you.  Will  you  come  in 
and  look  at  the  flowers?" 

They  entered.  Flowers  of  varied  scent  and  hue  every 
where  greeted  their  gaze.  Some  stood  together  in  gayly  con- 
trasted groups  ;  othei-s,  pale,  star-like  things,  gleamed  in  soli- 
tary beauty  through  their  dark  leaves ;  fresh  garden  blossoms, 
exotics  rare  and  fi-ail,  delicate  heaths,  dark  orchidae,  of  fantastic 
shap*!,  and  large  wax-like  flowers  from  many  a  far  and  foreign 
land,  were  gathered  there.  As  Nathalie  now  slowly  paced,  with 
the  little  Canoness,  that  long-deserted  ball-room,  which  had  once 
echoed  to  the  gay  sounds  of  the  dance,  and  heard  the  hum  of 
pleasant  voices,  she  thought  of  the  brilliant  scene  Aunt  Rado- 
gonde  had  beheld  there  ;  she  thought  of  the  long-faded  beauties, 
as  perishable  and  as  lovely  as  the  frail  flowers  she  now  saw, 


NATHALIE.  125 

of  their  gay  smiles  and  bright  looks,  of  their  short-lived  plea- 
sures, and  evening  triumphs  still  more  brief. 

''  If  it  were  night,"  said  she,  in  a  thoughtful  tone,  "  I  should 
feel  quite  timid  here." 

'•  Timid  !     Why  so,  Petite  V 

"  I  should  fancy  the  place  haunted.  Take  away  the  blue 
sky,  the  sunlight,  and  the  cheerful  day ;  imagine  night  abroad, 
Hiaking  all  things  shadowy,  vast  and  dim  ;  those  dark  cypresses 
rising  against  almost  as  dark  a  sky ;  the  moon  shedding  her 
soft,  pale  light  on  the  green  sward,  and  stealing  in  through  the 
lialf  open  casement,  just  revealing  enough  to  make  you  fear  all 
that  she  leaves  in  mysterious  shadow.  Imagine  all  these  things, 
and  I  assure  you,  aunt,  those  fair  flowers,  now  so  briglit  and 
gay,  will  become  as  the  pale  spirits  of  the  lovely  ladies  you 
described  awhile  ago.  Look  at  that  fuschia,  so  slender  and 
elegant,  with  its  purple  bells, — there  is  majesty  in  all  ita 
bending  grace :  it  is  handsome  Mademoiselle  d'Albe  covered 
with  jewels ;  those  green  and  erect  laurels  are  her  suitors ; 
the  three  delicate  camellias,  standing  apart,  are  the  three  fair 
sisters  ;  that  lively  little  yellow  flower,  up  there  by  itself,  and 
still  dancing  to  the  breeze,  must  be  the  lady  with  the  pretty 
foot ;  and  the  modest,  retiring-looking  blue-bell  is  as  surely  her 
of  the  clear,  harmonious  voice.  As  for  your  beautiful  aunt, 
behold  her  there  in  that  fair  royal  lily,  the  queen  of  all  around 
her  ;  how  serene,  how  lovely  she  looks  ;  and  as  the  breeze  just 
bends  her  stately  head,  how  gracefully  she  seems  to  perform 
the  honors  of  the  revel !" 

The  Canrness  looked  puzzled.  She  glanced  at  the  flowers, 
and  from  them  to  Nathalie.  The  young  girl  was  standing 
near  her  in  a  thoughtful  attitude,  her  head  slightly  averted, 
her  cheek  supported  by  her  hand,  in  a  way  familiar  to  her,  her 
look  slowly  wandering  over  the  graceful  flowers  her  fancy  had 
for  a  moment  conjured  up  into  the  long-vanished  guests  of  the 
lonely  hall.  A  stream  of  golden  light  from  the  autumn  sun 
fell  on  her  through  the  open  window,  and  as  it  mellowed  into  a 
sunny  brown  the  waves  of  her  jet-black  hair,  and  gave  to  the 
brilliant  bloom  of  her  cheek  a  rosy  hue  as  soft  and  yet  as  warm 
as  that  with  which  the  setting  sun  lights  up  the  western  sky. 
Aunt  Radegonde  thought  that,  to  none  of  the  bright  southern 
flowers  gathered  there,  did  that  light  lend  a  richer  warmth  and 
more  fervid  radiance. 

"  Petite,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  you  are  very  romantic.  You 
aiust  surely  be  descended  from  one  of  those  old  Provencal 


126  NATHALIE. 

troubadours,  both  poets  and  knights,  who  wandered  over  En 
rope, — now  jousting  at  tournaments,  now  singing  at  florai 
games,  or  helping  fair  ladies  to  hold  and  preside  over  courts  oi 
love." 

Nathalie  looked  up  with  a  merry  laugh,  and  the  clear,  sil- 
very sounds  awoke  in  the  old  hall  echoes  to  which  it  had  long 
been  a  stranger. 

"  Hush  !"  said  she  mysteriously,  "  we  must  not  laugh,— 
the  place  is  haunted  ;  and  surely  there  never  was  a  more  plea- 
sant ghost-chamber  ;  but  the  perfumes  of  these  fine  ladies  make 
one  feel  quite  faint ;  shall  we  not  go  and  leave  them  to  their 
enchanted  solitude?" 

They  left  the  place  as  she  spoke.  As  they  took  the  path 
that  led  homewards,  Nathalie  turned  back  to  give  one  last  look 
and  see,  as  she  said,  that  the  flowers  had  not  assumed  their 
original  shapes  as  soon  as  their  backs  were  turned.  But  the 
spell  which  bound  them — if  spell  there  was — remained  un- 
broken ;  the  white  temple  rose  silent  as  ever  in  its  bower  of 
dark  northern  trees,  and  the  soft  breeze  of  noon  still  brought 
low-whispered  tidings  from  without  to  the  captive  beauties  of 
the  old  hall. 

"  It  was  a  happy  idea,"  thoughtfully  said  Nathalie,  "  to 
convert  that  gay  ball-room  into  a  green-house ; — beauties  and 
flowers  !     The  transition  is  very  poetic." 

"  But  not  intentional.  Petite  ;  Armand  not  being  romantic 
like  you ;  and  but  for  his  passion  for  flowers " 

"  Has  Monsieur  de  Sainville  a  passion  for  flowers  ?"  quickly 
asked  Nathalie. 

"  Indeed  he  has  ;  they  are  the  only  luxury  in  which  he  in- 
dulges. His  room  and  the  library  are  always  full  of  flowers, 
and  he  comes  here  every  morning  to  inspect  the  progress  of 
his  favorites." 

"  He  called  them  frivolous,  transient  things,  the  other  day," 
exclaimed  Nathalie. 

'•  Oh,  did  he?"  said  the  Canoness,  with  a  slow  cough. — Na- 
thalie began  to  understand  that  sign. — "  "Well,  you  see.  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville  is  peculiar,  and  being  peculiar  he  has  pecu- 
liarities. He  never  says  he  is  fond  of  flowers, — he  never 
speaks  of  them  indeed  ;  and  if  he  did  speak  of  them,  I  dare 
say  it  would  be  disparagingly.  I  conclude  he  is  fond  of  there 
from  observation.  I  observe  a  great  deal, — he  may  think  them 
frivolous,  valueless  things,  and  yet  like  them ;  you  understand 
'^ut  we  will  change  the  subject." 


NATHALIE.  127 

She  looked  mysterious  and  uneasy,  as  she  always  did  -nhen 
tpeaking  of  her  nephew,  and  the  convetsation  was  continued 
on  ordinary  topics  until  they  reached  the  chateau.  Aunt 
Radegonde  then  bade  the  young  girl  go  up  to  her  room,  take 
oflF  her  things,  and  significantly  advised  her  to  trust  herself  to 
the  guidance  of  Amanda,  when  she  wished  to  join  her.  The 
femmc-de-chambre  looked  fully  as  mysterious  when  Nathalie, 
bavins  invoked  her  assistance,  asked  her  whither  she  was  'ead- 
ing  her  along  those  dark  passages  and  strange-looking  stair- 
cases ?  "  She  had  been  forbidden  to  tell ;  but  mademoiselle 
would  soon  know.  She  paused,  as  she  spoke,  before  a  door, 
which  she  opened  with  the  intimation  "  that  this  was  the  bou- 
doir of  Madame  le  Chainoinesse.'' 

Nathalie  entered,  and  by  the  octagon  shape  of  the  room, 
perceived  it  was  a  turret  chamber,  similar  to  her  own.  Small 
as  the  apartment  originally  was,  the  variety  of  objects  it  con- 
tained rendered  it  smaller  still :  yet  there  was  no  confusion, 
and  all  was  tastefully  arranged. 

"What  a  honhonnicreV  exclaimed  Nathalie,  glancing 
around  her  admiringly  ;  "  a  perfect  jewel." 

'•  Little  flatterer,"  said  Aunt  Kadegonde,  reprovingly  ;  but 
her  face  beamed  with  pleasure. 

'•  I  never  saw  such  a  place,"  continued  Nathalie,  still  stand- 
ing in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  examining  every  thing ; 
*•  how  beautiful  and  soft  the  light  comes  in  through  those  rose- 
colored  curtains  ;  and  that  delicate  paper  with  flowers  so  fresh, 
that  they  look  ready  to  be  gathered.  Oh  !  Aunt  Eadegonde, 
there  is  only  one  explanation  possible :  you  are  a  fairy,  and 
this  is  your  bower." 

She  turned  as  she  spoke  towards  the  Canoness,  who,  chilly 
as  usual,  was  seated  by  the  fire-side.  With  her  gold  cross,  her 
handsome  black  dress  of  rich  brocade  donned  for  the  occasion, 
her  cap,  and  ruffles  of  rare  old  lace,  her  soft  white  hands  de- 
murely folded  on  her  knees,  and  her  Cinderella  feet,  which,  to 
use  her  own  phraseology,  had  turned  so  many  heads  in  her 
younger  days,  coquettishly  resting  on  a  cushion — she  looked 
very  fairy-like  indeed. 

"  Petite,"  she  answered  smiling,  '■  you  have  childish  fan- 
cies." 

"  You  are  a  fairy,"  decisively  resumed  Nathalie,  who  saw 
very  well  this  last  fancy  was  not  at  all  displeasing,  '-and  I 
will  prove  it.  It  was  a  fairy  needle  wrought  these  embroidered 
ihairs ;  it  is  a  fairy's  hand  that   daily  tends  those  exquisi 


1 28  NATHALIE. 

flowers  in  their  bed  of  moss  ;  a  fairy  brought  those  beautifull;y 
tinted  shells  from  the  deep  sea,  and  enchanted  that  bird  in  its 
golden  cage.  The  last  crowning  proof  of  all  is,  that  the  whole 
place  not  being  larger  than  a  good-sized  nut-shell,  none  but  a 
fairy  could  live  in  it." 

"  But  you  see  it  will  hold  two." 

"  And  I  dare  say,  it  could  even  hold  three ;  four  it  could 
not.  Well  might  Amanda  lead  me  along  such  tortuous  stair- 
cases and  mysterious  passages  !  I  suppose  you  throw  a  spell 
over  the  place,  like  Peri  Baoou  over  her  palace,  in  the  old 
Arabian  tale.     Shall  it  sometimes  be  visible  for  me?'' 

"Always,"  was  the  gracious  reply.  "  I  have  not  often  been 
here  of  late ;  but  now  I  will  come.  You  shall  have  a  key  to 
enter  when  you  please." 

"  Delightful !"  said  Nathalie,  gayly  ;  "  and  I  promise  you 
to  do  as  I  did  to-day,  when,  actuated  by  a  presentiment  of  the 
truth,  I  attired  myself  in  my  best  to  pay  you  all  proper  honor.' 

"  And  you  look  very  well.  Petite,"  approvingly  replied  the 
Canoness,  attentively  eyeing  the  young  girl,  who  was  nov/ 
seated  on  a  low  settee  opposite  her;  "look  at  yourself.  Il 
must  be  your  white  dress  and  the  pink  curtains  behind." 

Obeying  the  injunction  of  the  Canoness,  Nathalie  looked 
up ;  in  the  depths  of  the  large  mirror  before  her  she  saw  a 
graceful  figure  clad  in  a  light  white  robe,  leaning  on  one  elbow, 
and  half-bending  forward,  with  a  look  and  attitude  that  became 
it  well.  She  saw  it  with  its  clear  brow  and  soft  dark  eyes,  and 
her  lips  parted  with  a  smile,  as  she  slowly  turned  her  look 
*way.  She  knew  that  the  vision  which  had  greeted  her  gaze 
was  beautiful  and  bright,  but  beautiful  of  its  own  beauty  ;  that 
no  toilet's  meretricious  art  had  given  harmony  to  those  grace- 
ful features,  symmetry  to  the  bending  figure,  and  that  the  pure 
bloom  of  the  clear  cheek  was  not  borrowed  from  the  curtain's 
rosy  hue.  She  turned  towards  the  Canoness  as  if  struck  with 
a  sudden  thought. 

"  You  said  you  would  show  me  the  portrait  of  your  aunt.'* 

"  Look  behind,  on  your  right,  child." 

Nathalie  turned  quickly  round.  On  either  side  of  the  win- 
dow was  a  female  portrait ;  that  which  the  Canoness  had  desig- 
nated, represented  a  richly  attired  lady  of  singular  loveliness. 
Dark-haired,  dark-eyed,  with  arched  eyebrows,  a  clear  profile, 
cheeks  like  the  peach,  and  ripe  smiling  lips — she  seemed  the 
p,ay,  handsome  creature  Nathalie  had  imagined ;  but  though 
she  looked  at  the  portrait  long  and   fixedly,  sho  said  nothing 


NATHALIE.  129 

"  Do  you  not  think  it  handsome  V  asked  the  Canoncss. 

"  Yes,"  slowly  answered  the  young  girl,  looking  at  the  othe? 
picture  as  she  spoke. 

This  painting  was  greatly  inferior  as  a  work  of  art  to  the 
other,  but  it  represented  a  young  girl  in  all  the  grace  and  fresh- 
ness of  youthful  beauty.  Curls  of  thick  clustering  hair  of  that 
blonde- coidre  so  much  esteemed  in  France,  shaded  features  so 
exquisitely  lovely,  that  Nathalie  thought  they  must  belong  to 
some  ideal  being.  The  deep  blue  eyes,  transparent  complexion, 
and  half-parted  lips,  displaying  the  pearly  teeth  within,  render- 
ed  the  whole  countenance  inexpressibly  charming. 

This  time,  Nathalie's  admiration  was  fully  expressed. 

"  What  a  lovely  countenance  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  I  told  you  so.'' 

"  Oh  !  I  do  not  mean  your  aunt  Adelaide,  but  this  portrait.'' 

"  Oh  !  this."  The  Canoness  spoke  slowly.  She  looked  up 
at  the  picture,  and  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  as  if  to  see 
it  better. 

"  Is  it  a  portrait,  and  a  good  likeness  ?"  continued  Nathalie, 

Receiving  no  reply,  she  turned  round.  The  little  Canoness 
was  looking  at  the  picture  in  the  same  attitude,  but  her  hand 
shook  visibly,  and  her  eyes  were  dim.  Nathalie  stood  silent 
and  astonished  ;  gazing  by  stealth  at  th'e  lovely  face  that  seem- 
ed to  be  smiling  down  on  her,  and  wondering  what  sad  story 
cculd  be  linked  with  those  serene  features. 

•'  The  fire  is  very  low,"  abruptly  said  the  Canoness,  as  Na- 
thalie resumed  her  seat ;  she  stooped  to  arrange  it,  and  though 
the  fire  burned  brightly,  the  task  took  her  long  to  accomplish. 
Nathalie  took  up  a  book  from  the  table — it  was  the  Revue— 
and  opened  at  the  tale  '•  Mystere."    She  laid  it  down  pettishly. 

"  I  detest  that  tale  !"  she  said.  The  Canoness  was  leaning 
back  in  her  chair,  grave,  thoughtful,  and  unusually  silent.  She 
did  not  answer,  and  did  not  seem  to  have  heard  her.  "  Do  you 
think  the  author  means  to  say  that  mad  girl  will  marry  that 
bad  man?"  continued  Nathalie,  wishing  to  break  through  this 
awkward  silence. 

"  Petite,"  said  the  Canoness,  with  sudden  earnestness,  "  do 
you  ever  think  of  marriage?" 

"  Sometimes — not  often,"  replied  Nathalie,  a  little  surprised 
The  Canoness  shook  her  head  solemnly. 
"  I  wish  the  answer  had  been  '  Never.'  " 

"  Is  it  such  a  dangerous  thought  ?"  asked  Nathalie,  laughing, 
*'  When  I  make  observations,"  said  Aunt  Radegonde,  draw 
6* 


T30  NATHALIE, 

ing  herself  up  wltli  au  offended  air,  "  I  expect  them  to  b«  lis 
tened  to  with  due  gravity ;  but  no  matter." 

The  little  Canoness  was  not  one  of  those  whose  reproaches 
could  rouse  Nathalie  to  defiance  ;  far  from  it.  She  rose  quickly, 
and,  walking  up  to  Aunt  Radegonde's  chair,  looked,  as  she 
felt,  touched  and  sorry. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  rude, — indeed  I  did  not,"  she  said, 
very  earnestly ;  "and  you  are  so  good."  she  added,  in  a  half- 
arch,  half-coaxing  tone,  '•  that  I  do  not  think  you  can  be  angry 
very  long." 

"  Oh  !  Petite,"  replied  the  placable  Canoness,  making  Na- 
thalie sit  down  on  the  cushion  at  her  feet,  and  eyeing  her  wist- 
fully, as  she  laid  her  hand  on  her  shoulder ;  "  how  is  it  that 
when  I  see  a  young  girl  like  you,  thoughtless,  handsome,  and 
happy,  my  heart  yearns  towards  her  at  once  ?  And  if  you  had 
not  laughed,  I  would  have  given  you  some  good  advice." 

"  To  which  I  shall  listen  very  attentively  now,"  soothingly 
Baid  Nathalie. 

"  You  will  not  be  the  first  that  has  done  so."  replied  the  Ca- 
noness, with  a  touch  of  consequence  ;  "  nor  yet  the  first  gay 
child  that  has  sat  thus  at  ni}'  feet,  and  looked  into  my  face," 
she  added,  in  a  sad  and  lower  tone.  Her  lips  trembled,  and 
again  her  eyes  grew  dim. 

"  And  the  advice?"  quickly  said  Nathalie. 

Aunt  Radegonde  was  once  more  consequential  and  erect. 

"  It  shall  be  on  that  point  most  important,  most  fatal  to  wo- 
man— marriage  !  But,  perhaps,  Petite,  you  may  yet  deter' 
tnine  to  lead  a  life  of  celibacy,  like  me  ?" 

"  Is  it  not  good  to  be  prepared  for  every  emergency  ?"  de- 
murely asked  Nathalie. 

"  True,  Petite  ;  well,  then,  to  be  methodical,  we  will  divide 
that  advice  under  three  heads, — the  man  you  wish  to  have,  the 
man  who  wishes  to  have  you,  and  the  man  you  ought  to  have." 

A  mischievous  smile  played  on  Nathalie's  features. 

'•  Could  we  not  blend  those  three  characters  into  one  ?"  she 
asked,  very  gravely. 

"  Impossible  !"  cried  the  Canoness,  looking  shocked  at  thia 
heterodox  suggestion  ;  "  why  they  are  three  wholly  different 
individuals.  The  man  you  wish  to  have  sees  it — they  s,l-vays 
see  it,  and  he  becomes  a  tyrant  :  they  always  are  tyrants  in 
such  cases.  The  man  who  wishes  to  have  you  is  exacting,  jea- 
lous, and  will  fret  your  life  away.  But  the  man  you  ought  to 
have  has  esteem  and  affection  for  you,  just  as  you  have  esteem 


NATHALIE. 


131 


and  affection  for  him.  You  have  esactly  the  SLme  tastes,  the 
same  feelings  ;  you  always  agree,  you  never  quarrel — nature 
made  you  for  one  another.'' 

"  Marraine,"  very  quickly  said  Nathalie,  '•  I  will  never  have 
him  ;  he  is  good,  honest,  an  excellent  cousin,  brother,  or  uncle, 
all  whose  offices  nature  has  evidently  destined  him  to  fulfil,  but 
I  will  never  have  him." 

"Who,  then,  will  you  have?"  asked  the  Canoness,very  gravely. 
'•  Why,  if  I  must  choose,  one  of  the  other  two." 
«  But  which  of  the  two  ?" 

''  The  one  who  likes  me,"  replied  Nathalie,  after  a  brief 
pause  given  to  reflection ;  "  I  shall  rather  fancy  receiving 
incense^'and  adoration, — being  a  sort  of  household  divinity." 

"  Well,"  said  Aunt  Radegonde,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  am  glad 
you  did  not  at  least  choose  the  other  one,  for  Jte  is  the  worst  of 
the  three." 

"But  why  is  he  the  worst?"  asked  Nathalie,  amused  at  the 
gravity  with  which  she  spoke  of  those  imaginary  characters. 

"  Because  you  like  him,  and  he  knows  it.  Petite,  you  do 
not  know  that  man  :  he  is  proud,  exacting,  and  would  find  fault 
with  an  nngel  of  light.  Give  a  woman  the  beauty  of  a  god- 
dess, the  wisdom  of  a  sage,  the  temper  of  a  saint, — he  will  find 
fault  with  her  still.  If  she  is  plain,  she  ought  to  be  handsome  ; 
if  she  is  handsome,  beauty  is  but  dross ;  if  she  is  spirited,  he 
calls  her  shrew ;  if  gentle,  tame ;  if  she  is  prudent,  he  finds 
her  cold-hearted  ;  and  giddy  if  she  is  a  little  gay." 

"Why,  what  a  morose,  disagreeable  man!"  exclaimed 
Nathalie,  very  indignantly ;  "  and  yet,  proud  as  he  is,"  she 
added,  after  a  pause,  "  he  too  could  be  made  to  stoop." 

"You  do  not  know  him,"  said  the  Canoness,  shaking  her 
head :  "  you  do  not  know  him  ;  how  proud,  how  jealous,  how 
exacting  the  love  he  receives  has  made  him.     Let  us  take  an 
imaginary  case, — quite  imaginary,  you  understand." 
"  Yes,  imaginary  ;  but  about  him." 
"  About  him  and  a  young  girl — any  young  girl." 
"  Yes,  any  young  girl.     Shall  she  be  beautiful  ?" 
«  Very  beautiful." 

'•  As  beautiful — I  mean  as  good-looking  as  your  Aunt  Ado- 
(aide." 

"  More,  Petite,  more — she  shall  be  the  fairest  creature  eye 
ever  saw,  as  gentle  and  winning  as  she  is  lovely." 

"  What !  is  she  all  this,  and  does  he  not  love  her  ?"  impa- 
tiently exclaimed  Nathalie. 


132  NATHALIE. 

"  He  does,  Petite.  Not  love  Lor  !  it  would  not  be  in  human 
nature.  Stern,  forbidding  as  he  is,  he  shall  never  speak  to  her 
in  the  same  voice  in  which  he  speaks  to  others ;  he  shall  never 
look  at  her  with  the  same  look  .  but  some  are  as  inexorable  in 
their  love  as  others  in  their  hatred,  and  lie^  Petite,  is  one  of 
them." 

She  spoke  in  a  low  impressive  tone,  but  Nathalie  looked 
up  at  her  smilingly. 

"  If  she  loves  him,  and  he  loves  her,"  she  said  softly,  "  where 
can  the  mischief  be?" 

"  Oh  !  Petite,"  sorrowfully  replied  Aunt  Radegonde,  "  you 
are  a  child,  and,  child-like,  you  think  that  to  be  young,  pretty, 
and  loving  is  enough." 

"  And  why  is  it  not  enough  ?"  earnestly  asked  Nathalie. 

"  Because  much  love  has  made  him  exacting  ;  he  will  bo 
over  her  as  an  inexorable  judge  that  forgives  nothing.  ' 

"  But  where  there  is  aifection,  it  is  so  easy  to  forgive." 

"  Not  for  him — not  for  him." 

"  Then  he  is  vindictive." 

"  No ;  for  he  does  not  avenge  the  wrong ;  but  neither  doea 
he  forget  it." 

"  But  what  does  she  do  to  vex  him  ?  She  must  do  some- 
thing; what  is  it?" 

"  We  will  suppose  any  thing,"  said  the  Canoness,  after  a 
pause  ;  "  for  you  do  not  forget  this  is  quite  imaginary." 

"  Oh  !  yes, — quite  imaginary." 

"  Well,  then,  we  will  suppose  that  he  is  called  away ;  she 
remains  at  home,  sorrowful  and  pining." 

I  see,  I  see,"  interrupted  Nathalie,  in  her  impatient  way 
"  he  is  faithless  ;  whilst  she — oh  !  she  would  wait  for  him  for 
ever.  He  is  a  very  bad  man.  I  do  not  like  him  at  all,"  sho 
added,  with  great  warmth. 

The  Canoness  looked  a  little  disconcerted. 

"  No,  Petite  ;  it  is  not  exactly  so.  You  see,  she  loves  hira  ; 
but  she  is  so  gentle,  so  good,  that  she  will  sacrifice  herself;  in 
Bhort,  it  is  an  old  story ;  they  make  her  promise  to  marry 
another." 

"  Then  she  does  not  love  him  !"  exclaimed  Nathalie. 

"  Yes,  she  does ;  but  she  is  yielding  gentleness  itself. 
Well,  he  returns  in  time  to  save  her  ;  for  he  can  save  her :  and 
though  the  man  they  would  give  her  to  is  young,  handsome,  rich; 
and  enamored,  she  would  far  sooner  have  her  old  love.  Well^ 
what  do  you  think  he  does  ?" 


NATHALIE.  333 

'•'He  leaves  her  to  the  fate  she  has  chosen,"  iudignantly 
exclaimed  Nathalie  ;  "  and  he  does  well." 

A  flush  rose  to  the  brow  of  the  Canoness  ;  the  hand,  which 
Btill  rested  on  the  shoulders  of  the  young  girl  was  hastily  with- 
drawn. 

"You  justify  him,"  said  she,  eyeing  her  almost  sternly; 
"you  condemn  her  to  misery  !"  , 

"  Misery  !  No.  She,  who  was  weak  to  love,  shall  be  weak 
to  suffer  ;  she  shall  marry,  be  unhappy  for  a  while,  and  then  be 
comforted,  and  forget." 

"Oh!  you  arrange  it  thus,  do  you?"  replied  Aunt  Piadc- 
gonde,  with  a  sad  and  somewhat  bitter  smile  ;  "  but  why  should 
it  surprise  me?  I  have  always  noticed  it:  the  young  are 
severe,  and  very  hard.  Well,  then,  since  you  understand  all 
this  so  well,  tell  me  what  becomes  of  him." 

"  He  suffers,  but  does  not  complain.' 

"  Suffer  !  How  can  he  suffer?  Did  he  not  reject  her  wil- 
lingly ?" 

"  He  rejected  her,  because  it  was  not  the  woman  he  want- 
ed,— but  the  love  of  the  woman.  How  could  he  care  for  it, 
once  faith  was  gone,  and  her  truth  was  broken  ?  Do  not  think 
he  feels  nothing,"  she  added,  warming  with  her  subject.  "  Oh  f 
he  still  loves,  but  with  the  brooding,  vengeful  love  of  the 
wronged  heart.  He  bitterly  regrets  the  past,  but  he  repents 
nothing ;  he  would  still  cast  her  from  him,  though  his  own 
heart  should  break,  or,  worse,  bleed  for  ever." 

She  spoke  so  earnestly,  that  her  eyes  grew  dim,  and  her 
lips  trembled.     There  was  a  pause. 

"  Petite,"  said  the  Canoness,  in  her  usual  tone,  and  once 
more  laying  her  hand  on  the  young  girl's  shoulder,  whilst  she 
eyed  her  thoughtfully,  "  you  grieved  me  so  much  awhile  ago, 
that  I  thought  I  should  never  forgiv-e  you, — never  love  yon 
again.  But  now  I  see  you  spoke  from  ignorance  ;  how  should 
you  know  the  truth  ?  You  have  not  lived  the  years  I  have 
lived,  nor  seen  the  sad  things  I  have  seen.  You  give  to  her 
the  heartlessness  of  man, — to  him  the  enduring,  even  though 
resentful  love  of  woman.  His  heart  break  !  Any  man's  heart 
break  !  You  simple  child,  know  that  it  is  she  who  dies  of  grief, 
and  he — why  he  lives  on.  But,  oh  !  Petite,  you  may  have 
your  own  sorrows,  your  own  trials  yet ;  do  not  be  so  severe." 

"  But  all  this  is  imaginary,  is  it  not?"  asked  Nathalie,  hes- 
itatingly. 

"Why,  you  did  not  think  it  was  real,  did  you?"  quickly 
Asked  the  Canoness. 


184  N'ATHALIE 

«  How  could  I  ?" 

"  No ;  of  course  you  could  not." 

"  Well,  then,  since  it  is  imaginary,"  said  Nathalie,  '•  what 
does  it  prove  ?  -He,"  she  smiled  as  she  emphasized  the  word, 
'•  he  is  the  corner-stone  of  your  edifice  ;  remove  him,  the  rest 
falls  to  the  earth.     Now,  as  he  is  unreal " 

"  Petite,"  interrupted  the  Canoness,  "  he  is  not  unreal." 

"  He  is  not !'" 

"  No.  Do  you  remember  I  once  spoke  to  you  of  a  certain 
person  ?" 

"  Whom  you  called  '  that  person,'  "  quickly  rejoined  Na- 
thalie. 

'•  He  and  that  person  are  much  alike  ;  and  the  woman  for 
whom  that  person  will  break  his  heart  is  not  born,  and  will 
never  exist." 

'•  You  think  so,"  thoughtfully  said  Nathalie. 

"  I  know  it.  Nay,  more  ;  I  always  had  the  presentiment 
no  woman  could  or  would  love  him ;  that  she  would  have  more 
fear  than  love  in  her  heart.  I  am  not  superstitious.  Petite, 
though  I  might  be  so,  having  had  some  extraordinary  dreams 
and  presentiments,  which  ttevcr  deceived  me ;  but  in  that  pre- 
sentiment I  always  believed  ; — ay,  though  he  was  neither  fool 
nor  coward,  nor  any  of  those  things  women  hate  by  instinct,  I 
always  felt  he  could  not  win  love." 

"But  why  so?" 

"  Because  he  was  too  proud,  too  unbending,  to  yield  us  the 
homage  nature  has  made  ours  by  right,"  replied  the  Canoness, 
drawing  up  her  little  figure  in  all  the  majesty  of  feminine 
dignity. 

Nath  ilie's  lip  curled  with  a  haughty  smile. 

"  Wl  at !  is  he  so  proud  as  that  ?"  she  said,  disdainfully. 
"  I  should  like  to  see  him  humbled — ay,  thoroughly." 

"  But  you  never  will,  Petite,"  quickly  rejoined  the  Canoness. 

"Why  not?"  promptly  asked  Nathalie. 

"  In  the  first  place,  because  he  will  not  allow  himself  to  be 
humbled ;  in  the  second,  because  he  is  no  visitor  here.  You 
must  not  think.  Petite,"  she  added,  smiling  shrewdly  at  the 
momentary  disappointment  expressed  by  Nathalie's  features. 
"  that  I  should  be  so  indiscreet  as  to  describe,  in  such  peculiar 
terms,  too,  a  person  you  could  recognize.  No  ;  I  am  very 
reserved  ;  and  take  my  word  for  it,  you  will  never  recognize 
that  person'  in  any  of  our  guests." 

Nathalie  looked  up,  and  smiled  a  peculiar  smile. 


NATHALIE.  13S 

"  I  shall  not  try,"  she  replied,  quietly. 

"  No,  do  not ;  but  profit  by  my  example,  and  make  reserve 
your  rule  of  conduct.  And,  Petite,"  she  earnestly  added, 
••  will  you  not  meditate  on  that  other  advice  I  gave  on  that  point 
most  important,  most  fatal  to  woman, — marriage  ?  llemember  ! 
divided  under  three  heads :  the  man  you  wish  to  have  (but  as 
I  have  shown,  the  very  last  you  ought  to  have) ;  the  man  who 
wishes  to  have  you  ;  and  the  man, — mark.  Petite, — the  man 
you  ought  to  have." 

"But  whom  I  will  not  have  at  all,"  quickly  rejoined  Na- 
thalie. "  No,  indeed,  I  cannot,"  she  added,  very  gravely,  and 
noticing  the  Canoness's  look  of  chagrin,  "  I  give  you  my  word 
I  cannot.  He  is  a  good,  honest  sort  of  man, — a  great  deal  too 
good  for  me ;  I  know  I  ought  to  like  him,  7nais  c'cst  jylus  fort 
que  moi^''  she  added,  with  a  very  decisive  wave  of  the  hand. 

The  Canoness  remonstrated,  a  little  peevishly;  "he  was," 
she  declared,  "  the  only  good  one  of  the  three."  But  Nathalie 
was  rebellious,  and  would  not  hear  of  him. 

The  contest  lasted  long,  and  was  not  yet  over  when  they 
were  called  to  their  early  and  quiet  dinner.  The  subject  being 
then  dropped,  was  not  resumed  subsequently. 


CHxiPTER  X. 

Evening  was  come ;  the  Canoness  had  fallen  asleep  in  her 
chair  by  the  fire-side,  whilst  Nathalie  loitered  about  the  room, 
inspecting  and  admiring  the  various  treasures  of  petrified  birds' 
nests,  miniature  boxes,  fairy-looking  baskets,  and  specimens  of 
rare  old  china  gathered  in  the  little  boudoir.  After  sleeping 
for  about  an  hour,  Aunt  Radegonde  awoke  ;  to  her  dismay  the 
fire  had  burned  out ;  the  room  looked  lonely. 

"  Petite,  where  are  you  ?"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of 
chagrin. 

The  rose-colored  curtains  opened,  and  Nathalie  stood 
Bmiling  before  her. 

"  I  came  here  when  you  fell  asleep,"  she  replied. 

'•  When  I  fell  asleep  !"  exclaimed  the  Canoness,  in  a  nettled 
tone.  "  I  was  not  sleeping.  Petite  ;  but  I  do  often  fall  into  a 
Qieditativc  mood  after  dinner,   and  I  was  particularly  medi- 


136  xVATIIA  Z.IE. 

tative  this   evening.      What  were  you  doing  near  that  cool 
window !"  she  added,  as  Nathalie  resumed  her  seat. 

"  I  was  watching  the  wind." 

"  Watching  the  wind,  Petite  ?  How  strangely  you  talk  i 
The  wind  is  invisible." 

"Not  so  invisible  but  that,  like  most  mysterious  people,  ho 
betrays  himself  by  his  deeds  ;  therefore  have  I  been  watching 
him  whistling  round  the  corner  of  this  turret." 

"  And  what  did  the  wind  say  1" 

"  Wonderful  things,  no  doubt,  but  Avhich,  not  being  a  fairy, 
like  you,  I  could  not  understand  ;  but  I  can  tell  you  what  he 
did:  he  tossed  the  chimneys  about,  knocked  down  a  flowerpot 
or  two  from  an  upper  story  ;  pleaded  in  a  soft,  pitiful  voice  to 
get  in  at  this  window,  and  not  being  admitted,  moaned  away 
along  the  avenue,  and  spitefully  smashed  one  of  the  branches 
of  those  great  trees." 

'■'■  Ah  !  mon  Dieii !"  uneasily  said  the  Canoness  ;  "what  a 
boiisterous  night !  I  dislike  the  wind ;  it  sounds  so  very 
dreary." 

"  But  it  is  nothing  at  all  here,"  observed  Nathalie,  smiling. 
"  1  recollect  an  old  chateau  in  Provence,  something  like  this, 
but  standing  by  the  sea-side,  and  uninhabited,  save  by  an  old 
housekeeper,  who  let  me  roam  about  at  will,  for  I  was  a  child 
then,  and  something  of  a  favorite  with  her.  There  was  a  long 
pjallery — a  picture  gallery  once,  but  then  almost  bare,  and  very 
areary — where  the  wind  seemed  to  hold  his  peculiar  revels,  and 
never  since  have  I  heard  any  thing  so  unearthly.  I  know  not 
how  it  was,  but  the  sound  always  seemed  to  come  from  behind 
me.  I  would  walk  very  slowly  along,  listening,  for  sometinles 
his  windship  picked  his  steps  as  daintily  as  any  lady,  then  he 
suddenly  quickened  his  pace  and  I  quickened  mine  as  well ;  it 
seemed  a  race  between  us  :  we  reached  the  door  together ;  I 
darted  out  without  even  once  looking  behind  me,  and  flew  down 
stairs  breathless  between  pleasure  and  fear." 

"  Then  you  were  afraid  ?" 

"  Mortally  afraid  ;  and  there  was  the  charm.  That  gallery 
was  to  me  as  a  ghost  story  whispered  by  the  fire-side,  or  a  Rad- 
cliff  romance  read  with  a  solitary  candle  in  a  lonely  bedroom. 
The  old  garden,  full  of  poplars,  was  nearly  as  pleasant :  it  waa 
delightful  to  stand  in  their  deep  shadow,  listening  to  the  rust- 
ling above,  and  when  the  breeze  became  more  keen,  and  swept 
down  the  avenue,  to  feel  it  blowing  my  hair  back,  and  scarcely 
allowing  me  to  catch  my  "breath.     Oh  !    our  Provence  is  a 


NATHALIE.  1.37 

p!cr.3ant  place ;  and  how  often  in  3IademoiselIe  Dantiu's  dull 
Bchool-room  have  I  longed  to  be  away,  to  stand  in  that  solitary 
avenue  thick  with  fallen  leaves,  for  just  one  short  quarter  of  an 
hour,  to  listen  to  the  wind  and  the  poplars  again. 

'•  Petite,"  said  the  Canoness,  bending  forward.  "  you  must 
not  talk  so  ;  you  are  getting  excited." 

"  It  is  the  wind,"  gayly  replied  Nathalie. 

«  Ah  !"  thoughtfully  observed  Aunt  Kadegonde,  "  you  are 
like  my  kitten,  Minette,  who,  poor  little  thing,  always  gets 
frisky  in  windy  weather." 

"  Am  I  frisky  to-night  V  asked  Nathalie,  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes. 

"  Very  much  so ;  and  to  keep  you  in  proper  order,  I  shall 
give  you  this  knitting  to  finish." 

Nathalie  took  the  knitting,  which  seemed  to  produce  the 
desired  eflFect  of  subduing  her  spirits,  for  she  fell  ere  long  into 
a  deep  reverie,  and  the  quiet  prosing  of  Aunt  Kadegonde 
reached  her  ear,  but  went  no  farther.  About  an  hour  had  thus 
elapsed  when  a  servant  came  up  with  a  message  from  Monsieur 
de  Sainville,  desiring  to  know  whether  his  aunt  would  allow 
him  to  wait  upon  her.  Nathalie,  absorbed  in  her  knitting, 
never  stirred  or  looked  up ;  the  Canoness  seemed  slightly 
flurried. 

"  Certainly,"  she  quickly  answered ;  "  we  shall  be  very 
happy  to  see  Monsieur  de  Sainville.  "  You  see,  Petite,''  she 
added,  addressing  Nathalie,  when  the  servant  had  retired  ; 
"  how  deferential  Armand  is  ;  I  assure  you  he  would  not  think 
of  entering  this  room  without  my  express  permission." 

Ere  long  a  step  was  heard  upon  the  stairs,  the  door  opened, 
and  Monsieur  de  Sainville  entered.  The  table  had  to  be  re- 
moved for  him  to  take  a  seat  between  his  aunt  and  Nathalie  ; 
in  spite  of  all  Rose  had  told,  the  young  girl  remained  cold 
and  distant.  But  this  was  a  fact  which  did  not  seem  to  pro- 
duce a  very  painful  impression  upon  her  host ;  his  discourse  in- 
deed was  almost  exclusively  directed  to  his  aunt;  the  subject, 
to  Nathalie's  great  disdain,  was  the  result  of  the  crops  and 
the  state  of  the  country ;  from  this  there  was  a  transition  tc 
the  more  poetical  theme  of  gardening. 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville, 
suddenly  addressing  Nathalie,  '•  I  caused  some  flowers  to  be 
put  in  the  centre  of  the  gras.sy  plot,  as  you  suggested ;  but 
they  look  very  gay  near  the  dark  yews  ;  they  are  evidently 
unsympathetic  natures  ;  have  you  seen  them  ?  What  do  you 
think  of  them?" 


138  ^rATHALIE. 

"  I  have  seen  them,  sir,  and  do  not  like  them  at  all,"  an- 
swered Nathalie. 

•'  Do  you  think  they  ought  to  be  removed  ?" 

"  Nay,  sir ;  I  think  they  will  do  to  stay,  and  read  a  good 
lesson  on  the  danger  of  taking  and  following  the  advice  of  the 
ignorant." 

She  spoke  as  demurely  as  a  nun ;  never  once  looking 
towards  Monsieur  de  Sainville  to  see  how  he  would  take  this  ; 
but  as  she  sat  opposite  Aunt  Radcgonde,  she  could  meet  her 
astonished  look.  There  was  a  pause.  The  Canoness  seemed 
uncomfortable. 

'•  How  very  high  the  wind  is,"  she  observed  at  length,  by 
way  of  opening  the  conversation  ;  '•  do  you  like  to  Ldten  to  the 
wind,  Armand  ?" 

"  The  wind.  Aunt,"  he  musingly  replied.  '•  Why  yes,  I  be- 
lieve I  had  some  such  fancy  when  I  was  a  boy." 

"  Ah  !  well,  Petite  likes  it  very  much  ;  she  stood  listening 
to  it  for  a  whole  hour  this  evening." 

"You  liks  it?"  inquiringly  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville, 
turning  towards  Nathalie. 

"  When  I  have  nothing  better  to  do,  I  like  it  well  enough," 
she  carelessly  answered. 

"  She  doats  on  it,"  continued  the  Canoness,  without  noticing 
Nathalie's  look  of  vexation  ;  for  there  was  something  peculiarly 
disagreeable  to  her  in  being  thus  made  the  subject  of  a  conver- 
sation addressed  to  Monsieur  de  Sainville.  "  Yes,  she  does 
indeed,"  resumed  Aunt  Radegonde,  too  well  pleased  with  so 
easy  a  topic  of  discourse  to  abandon  it  in  haste.  "  There  was 
an  old  chateau  by  the  sea,  somewhere  in  Provence,  with  a  lone- 
ly gallery  and  an  ancient  garden,  where  she  used  to  go,  and 
listen  to  the  wind  for  hours." 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  is  romantic,"  said  Monsieur  de 
Sainville,  with  his  peculiar  smile. 

"  Romantic  !  indeed  she  is.  You  should  have  heard  her  in 
the  hot-house  to-day.  She  transformed  all  the  flowers  into 
ladies. — gave  them  names,  and  described  their  characters." 

"  Decidedly  romantic,"  continued  her  nephew.  '•  Fortu- 
nately," he  added,  noticing,  perhaps,  Nathalie's  look  of  in- 
creased annoyance,  "  she  has  not  reached  the  age  when  romance 
becomes  forbidden." 

"  Oh  !"  quickly  said  Nathalie,  "  I  do  not  wish  to  avail  my- 
Kelf  of  that  plea.  I  ought  to  know  better,  of  coui'se,  since  I 
atn  eighteen,"  she  added,  a  little  hesitatingly,  and  yet  unable 


NATHALIE.  139 

to  resist  tlic  temptation  of  letting  Monsieur  de  Sainville  becomo 
aware  of  this  important  fact.  She  spoke,  moreover,  in  a  tone 
of  quiet  dignity  destined  to  inspire  him  with  what,  notwith- 
standing all  his  politeness,  she  greatly  doubted  that  he  felt  for 
her — a  proper  degree  of  respect. 

"  Indeed  !"  said  he,  very  gi-avely,  "  Eighteen  !  Oh  !  of 
course,  that  alters  the  matter  completely.  Eighteen  !  Why, 
at  that  age  of  mature  reason  and  varied  experience,  the  ro- 
mance of  life  is  quite  over." 

Nathalie  colored  deeply,  but  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  her 
work  ;  to  all  appearance  it  occupied  her  completely. 

"  My  dear  child !"  exclaimed  the  Canoness,  in  a  tone  of 
dismay,  "what  can  )'0u  be  thinking  of?  You  are  letting  down 
your  stitches  as  fast  as  you  can." 

"  Oh,  no  !"  quickly  answered  Nathalie,  '•  it  is  all  right." 

"  All  right  !  Why,  Petite,  I  saw  you  dropping  the  stitches. 
Show  it  to  me.  There,  do  you  see,"  she  added,  as  Nathalie 
reluctantly  surrendered  her  work.  "  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !"  she 
continued,  with  evident  consternation,  "  it  is  all  wrong.  Pe- 
tite !  Petite  !  where  can  your  thoughts  have  been  wandering 
for  the  last  half-hour  V 

"  Nowhere,  indeed,"  said  Nathalie,  very  quickly  ;  '•  but  the 
mistake  will  soon  be  mended,"  she  added  :  and  taking  the  work 
from  the  hand  of  the  Canoness.  she  drew  the  needles  out,  and 
deliberately  unravelled  it. 

Aunt  Rade^onde  eyed  her  with  surprise. 

The  young  girl's  clear  brow  was  now  slightly  overcast  ;  her 
cheeks  were  flushed,  her  lips  compressed  ;  she  looked  a  not  un- 
attractive picture  of  vexation,  as  she  stood  on  the  hearth,  hi3r 
face  half-averted,  her  hands  so  zealously  engaged  in  uni*aveling 
her  previous  task,  that  they  threatened  not  to  leave  any  token 
of  her  mistake. 

"  Take  care.  Petite,  take  care  !"  soothingly  said  the  Canon- 
ess ;  "  do  not  go  so  fast,  nor  allow  yourself  to  be  so  easily  put 
out ;  j-ou  will,  I  fear,  meet  with  greater  misfortunes  in  life 
than  a  piece  of  knitting  going  wrong.  Why,  what  a  strange 
girl  she  is,"  she  added,  as  Nathalie's  half-averted  features  lit 
up  with  an  arch  smile  ;  "  there  she  is  laughing ;  awhile  ago 
she  looked  ready  to  cry.  It  must  be  the  wind  makes  her  so 
changeable ;  she  confessed  to  me  it  made  her  as  frisky  as  my 
kitten,  Minette."  This  was  uttered  confidentially,  and  address- 
ed to  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 

Nathalie  colored  to  the  very  temples,  and  looked  far  mora 
vexed  than  before. 


I'ln  NATHALIE. 

"  Madame,"  she  quickly  cried,  •'  You  said  tliat — — " 

'•  I  did  not." 

"  But  wlaat  a  very  peculiar  fact,"  observed  Monsieur  da 
Sainyille,  turning  towards  Nathalie  ;  "  does  the  wind  indeed  af- 
fect you  in  that  strange  manner,  mademoiselle  V 

Nathalie,  who  had  resumed  her  scat,  laid  down  her  work 
on  her  lap,  and  looking  at  the  speaker,  said,  with  great  gra 
vity : 

"  In  what  strange  manner,  sir  ?" 

'•  Does  it  affect  your  spirits,  or— I  speak,  alas,  from  a  prac- 
tical knowledge  of  Minette's  disposition — your  temper  ?  Pray 
excuse  the  question,  but  this  is  an  interesting  physiological 
fact." 

Was  this  meant  m  earnest,  or  was  it  mere  trifling  ?  Nathalie 
did  not  know ;  she  at  all  events  drew  herself  up  with  an  air  of 
offended  dignity,  but  it  would  not  do  ;  laughter  glanced  in  her 
dark  eyes,  and  an  irrepressible  smile  played  around  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth — compressed  in  vain. 

"No,"  she  demurely  replied;  "  the  wind  might  have  affect- 
ed me  so  when  I  was  a  child,  but  of  course  it  cannot  do  so 
now." 

"  Ah  !  of  course,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  smiling ; 
'■'  both  feelings  and  temper  have  become  so  calm,  so  sedate  at 
the  mature  age  of  eighteen." 

"  My  dear  child  !"  exclaimed  the  Cauoness,  in  a  nervous 
tone,  "  do  put  by  that  knitting,  or  we  shall  l^ave  some  new 
mishap." 

The  knitting  was  dropped  as  if  it  burned  Nathalie's  fin- 
gers ;  but  scarcely  was  restored  to  Aunt  Radegonde's  safe- 
keeping when  the  young  girl  exclaimed : 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  I  cannot  endure  to  sit  thus,  doing  no- 
thing." 

"  You  are  industrious,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 

"  Industrious  !  not  at  all,"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  with  a  look 
and  tone  implying  a  perfect  disdain  for  the  compliment ;  "_  I 
cannot  endure  idleness,  simply  because  it  fills  me  with  e?inuV 

"  You  are  right,  for  all  that,"  persisted  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville, whom  Nathalie  began  to  suspect  of  a  desire  to  teazo  her, 
— a  suspicion  not  wholly  displeasing  to  her  childish  vanity ; 
"  depend  upon  it,  enmii  was  the  serpent  who  tempted  Eve, 
3ven  in  Eden." 

"  Oh  !  Eve  and  the  serpent,"  exclaimed  the  Canoness,  catch- 
ing only  the  last  words  ;  "  ah  !  what  a  pity  Eve  was  not  mor« 
reserved." 


rCATHALin.  141 

"  You  would  have  been  so,"  observed  her  nephew,  smiling. 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  cautiously  replied  Aunt  Radegonde  ;  '•  it 
is  imprudent  to  boast ;  yet  I  do  think  I  should  have  been  more 
reserved.     Do  you  not  think  you  would,  Petite?" 

Nathalie  shook  her  head  dubiously. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  would,"  persisted  Aunt  Radegonde  ;  '■  do;you 
not  think  she  would,  Armand?" 

'•  Of  course,"  carelessly  replied  Monsieur  de  Sainvillc,  who 
had  taken  up  the  Revue,  and  was  slowly  turning  over  its  pages. 

"  You  have  too  good  an  opinion  of  me,  madame,"  said  Na- 
thalie, addressing  the  Canoness  somewhat  coldly ;  -  I  should 
have  acted  exactly  as  poor  Eve." 

"  Petite,  you  cannot  tell." 

'•  Yes,  I  can,  for  I  have  done  it,"  was  the  reply,  more  prompt 
than  discreet,  and  perchance  Nathalie  felt  so  herself,  for  she 
looked  somewhat  confused  as  the  incautious  admission  escaped 
her  lips. 

"  Oh  !"  said  the  Canoness,  very  much  astonished. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  laid  down  the  book,  and  turning 
slowly  on  his  chair,  eyed  Nathalie  with  his  calm,  penetrating- 
gaze. 

"  You  have  tasted  the  forbidden  fruit  ?"  he  said  at  length. 

Nathalie  hesitated  slightly,  but  she  answered  "  Yes." 

"  And  pray — I  ask  to  be  instructed — what  sort  of  taste 
had  it?" 

"  The  taste  of  experience,  I  suppose — bitterness." 

"  And  how  did  you  feel  after  it  ?" 

"  Hot  and  feverish." 

"  Petite  !"  interposed  the  Canoness,  who  seemed  vexed  at 
the  freedom  of  Nathalie's  self-accusations  ;  "  how  can  you  com- 
pare a  childish  disobedience,  for  the  purpose  of  securing  some 
forbidden  delicacy,  with  the  great  disobedience  of  Eve?  It 
was  forbidden  knowledge  she  coveted,  you  know." 

But  Nathalie  would  not  avail  herself  of  this  excuse,  per- 
haps because  she  disdained  to  do  so ;  perhaps,  because  the 
slight  smile  which  curled  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  lip  told  her 
it  would  be  unavailing. 

'•  And  so  did  I,"  she  answered  quickly  ;  "  for  good  fruit  I 
had  in  plenty,  and  therefore  did  not  value ;  but  knowledge, 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil, — forbidden  knowledge,  was  rare 
and  tempting." 

"  Well,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  '•  you  are  at  least  frank 
about  it;  and  really,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "you  speak  as 
if  the  taste  of  the  apple  were  still  on  your  lips." 


142  .  NATHALIE. 

"  She  speaks  very  heedlessly,"  stiffly  said  the  aunt. 

"  Pray,"  continued  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  without  heeding 
her,  "  what  sort  of  a  shape  did  the  serpent  take  ?" 

Nathalie  met  his  keen  look  very  quietly. 

"  There  was  no  serpent,"  she  answered,  smiling,  as  sho 
thought  he  looked  slightly  baffled. 

"  Oh  !  an  act  of  your  own  free  will,"  he  observed,  some- 
what dryly  ;  "  much  better  still." 

"  No  serpent !  Then  after  all,  it  was  not  like  Eve,"  put  in 
the  Canoness. 

Nathalie  did  not  reply. 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville, 
"  you  are  really  cruel.  After  exciting  my  aunt's  curiosity, 
you  stop  short." 

"  My  curiosity,  Armand ;  my  curiosity.  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville !"  exclaimed  the  Canoness,  laying  down  her  knitting  with 
evident  indignation;  "well,  if  I  pride  myself  on  any  thing,  it 
is  on  not  being  at  all  inquisitive." 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  in  this  instance,  madame,"  said 
Nathalie,  very  gravely,  "  for  the  whole  story  is  so  childish, 
that  I  assure  you  it  will  not  bear  telling." 

"  Well,  but  what  is  it,  Petite  ?"  suddenly  asked  the  Can- 
oness, wholly  forgetting  that  she  was  not  inquisitive  ;  '■  was  it 
a  fruit  you  tasted?" 

'•  Yes,  a  fruit." 

"And  what  fruit?" 

"  The  solanum." 

"Why   it  is  a  poisonous  berry:  did  you  know  that?" 

"  Yes,  I  knew  it." 

"  And  yet  you  ate  it,"  said  the  Canoness  with  evident 
surprise. 

"  Aunt,"  interposed  her  nephew  looking  up  from  the  Revue, 
which  he  had  taken  up  once  more,  "  do  you  not  see,  mademoi- 
selle ate  that  berry  because  it  was  poisonous,  which  certainly 
constitutes  a  great  point  of  resemblance  with  Eve  ?" 

Nathalie  said  nothing.     The  Canoness  resumed. 

"  What  could  your  motive  be,  Petite  ?" 

"  Mere  childishness  ;  a  whim — a  fancy." 

"  A  fancy  for  poisonous  berries  ?"  continued  Aunt  Rade- 
gonde ;  '•  how  very  strange  !" 

"  Oh !"  hesitatingly  replied  Nathalie,  who  now  seemed 
thoroughly  annoyed  with  the  subject,  "  it  was  not  exactly 
because   they  were   poisonous ;   but   an   old  sailor   who   had 


XATnALii:.  •  143 

travelled  in  the  east,  once  described  to  mo  a  fruit  wluch  gre^^ 
there  and  which  he  said  procured  a  most  delightful  trance.  I 
foolishly  concluded  it  to  be  the  solanum,  which  grew  in  our 
garden, — a  treacherous,  luscious-looking  fruit ;  so  the  next  day 
I  went " 

'•  And  plucked  it  directly,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainvillc. 

"  Oh  !  no,"  coldly  replied  Nathalie ;  "  I  took  time  to  con- 
cider.  I  knew  the  fruit  was  poisonous ;  but  then  by  not 
eating  too  much,  I  should  be  safe ;  in  short,"  she  added  with 
a  penitential  sigh,  "  I  did  it." 

••And  what  was  the  result  ?"  asked  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 

"  A  week's  thirst,  dizziness  and  fever,"  answered  Nathalie. 
with  a  half-rueful,  half-comic  look ;  '•  if  I  had  only  enjoyed  my 
expected  treat,  I  should  not  have  cared  much  ;  but  it  was  all 
suffering — no  pleasure." 

"But  I  hope  you  felt  duly  sorry,"  said  the  Canoness,  very 
gravely. 

"  No  ;  I  was  only  disappointed." 

"  But,  surely,  Petite,  you  know  it  was  very  wrong." 

"Wrong!  why  so?  If  I  had  not  eaten  the  berries,  then 
I  should  be  longing  for  them  to  this  day ;  whereas  now  all  the 
berries  in  this  world  would  not  tempt  me." 

•'A  shrewd  reasoning,"  remarked  Monsieur  de  Sainville, 
"  and  one  which,  applied  to  graver  matters,  could  not  fail  from 
introducing  some  new  principle  in  ethics." 

"  Well,  Petite,"  observed  the  Canoness,  admonishingly, 
"  you  must  not  do  so  any  more  ;  do  you  hear  ?" 

"  Aunt,"  interrupted  her  nephew,  with  his  peculiar  smile, 
'•  you  remonstrate  iu  vain ;  Mademoiselle  MontoHeu  has  only 
had  a  taste  of  the  apple,  she  will  return  to  it  3'et." 

Nathalie  colored  very  deeply,  but  it  was  not  in  her  natui-e 
to  be  dismayed.     She  soon  rallied,  and  replied,  looking  up  : 
■"  Not  to  that  apple,  at  least." 

"  Oh  !  then  you  do  contemplate  tasting  some  other.'' 

"  Perhaps  so,  I  cannot  tell."  Nathalie  spoke  with  apparent 
carelessness,  but  iu  spite  of  her  usual  daring,  she  felt  annoyed 
and  disturbed. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  continued  her  pitiless  host,  "  3'ou  have 
forgotten  the  most  interesting  part  of  your  story.  How  old 
were  you  when  you  ate  the  berries?" 

Nathalie  stooped  to  see  if  the  fire,  which  was  out,  wanted 
arranging,  and  made  no  reply.  Her  face  was  crimson  when 
ehe  looked  up  again  ;  as  sho  did  so  she  met  the  look  of  Mon 


144  NATIIALIIi:. 

sleur  de  Sainville  fastened  on  her  v/itli  an  expression  Ibat  im 
plied  he  still  waited  for  her  reply. 

"  It  was  some  years  ago,"  she  said  at  length. 

"  I  am  sure  she  was  a  mere  child,"  officiously  observed  the 
Ganoness. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  smiled. 

"  I  suspect,"  he  remarked,  quietly,  "  that  a  mere  child 
would  not  have  thought  of  any  such  thing.  Mademoiselle 
Montolieu  had  more  probably  reached  the  age  for  making  ex- 
periments ;  thirteen  or  fourteen,  I  should  say.  Ah  !  I  know 
it,"  he  added,  as  Nathalie  gave  a  slight  start. 

"  Yes,  it  was  about  then,"  she  rejoined,  carelessly ;  but  in 
different  as  she  strove  to  appeal',  she  now  devoutly  wished  in 
her  heart  that  Eve's  apple  and  Nathalie  Montolieu's  berries 
had  never  been  mentioned  that  evening. 

Nathalie  labored  under  an  infirmity  not  uncommon  to  girls 
of  buoyant  spii-its  and  little  discretion  or  experience  ;  she  did 
not  know  that  there  are  a  thousand  innocent  things  that  a 
woman,  especially  when  young,  is  expected  not  to  say,  under 
pain  of  being  thought  vain,  presuming,  and  even  immodest. 
But  that  mixture  of  ease,  self-possession,  and  propriety  of 
bearing  which  the  world  requires  of  youth,  is  not  natural  to 
it ;  it  is  not  even  pleasing,  because  it  is  premature  ;  the  charm 
of  the  woman  sits  ill  on  the  inexperienced  girl :  she  has  her 
own  grace,  which  varies  according  to  temperament,  for,  after 
all,  it  is  only  a  question  of  temperament, — and  she  who,  in 
very  lightness  of  heart,  gives  utterance  to  every  passing 
thought,  is  not  less  pure  in  her  daring  than  she  who,  in  her 
shyness,  shrinks  and  blushes  before  every  look.  Nathalie  was 
certainly  not  more  vain  than  most  handsome  girls  of  her  age ; 
she  was  not  less  innocent  in  her  southern  vivacity  of  manner 
and  freedom  of  speech  than  the  calm  and  reserved  maidens 
of  Normandy.  At  the  same  time,  she  might  have  subdued 
both,  without  any  detriment  to  herself,  and  she  probably 
would  have  done  so,  but  for  the  harsh  censure  of  Mademoiselle 
Dantin.  The  schoolmistress  wished  her  to  talk  and  laugh  less, 
and  broadly  hinted  at  the  impropriety  of  running  up  and  down 
stairs  with  so  much  of  the  unnecessary  liveliness  displayed  by 
Nathalie,  who  could  scarcely  go  quietly  across  a  room,  or  even 
move  about,  without  seeming  happier  for  the  exertion.  These 
ill-tempered  remonstrances,  joined  to  taunts  of  her  southern 
origin,  to  which  Mademoiselle  Dantin  charitably  attributed 
her  various  failings,  only  irritated  Nathalie,  and  strengthened 


NATHALIE.  145 

iier  firm  resolve  not  to  be  improved  :  proviucial  patriotism,  and 
the  spirit  of  opposition  both  commanded  resistance,  and  both 
were  duly  obeyed.  But  this  rebellious  spirit  did  not  prevent 
Nathalie  from  having  a  certain  fear  of  opinion — that  tyrant 
of  youth.  Mademoiselle  Dantin  she  did  not  mind  :  she  knew 
her  to  be  unjust,  but  she  shrank  from  being  thouglit  bold  or 
unfeminine  by  others  ;  and  it  was  the  dread  of  thi^  that  made 
her  feel  somewhat  anxious  on  this  particular  evening. 

"  What  had  she  said?"  was  her  internal  soliloquy.  "  Was 
there  much  harm  in  it?  Why  in  a  sort  of  pique  and  vilfiil 
daring  had  she  allowed  herself  to  be  led  from  oiie  confession 
to  another,  until  she  had  uttered  so  much  Monsieur  de  Saiu- 
ville  had  no  business  to  hear?  What  was  it  to  him,  the  berries 
she  ate,  the  experiments  she  made,  and  the  conclusions  she 
drew?  He,  too,  drew  his  own  conclusions,  evidently  ;  all  tins 
mad  talk  would  give  him  a  delightful  opinion  of  her  :  she  bit 
her  lip  and  wished  it  had  been  her  tongue.  He  looked  rather 
grave ;  she  was  sure  it  was  about  her — he  was  thinking  her  a 
very  forward  impertinent  girl,  and  regretting  that  she  had 
ever  become  his  guest.  Well,  as  to  that,  he  need  not  trouble 
himself — she  would  go  soon  enough  ;  for  as  to  staying  where 
she  could  not  speak  her  mind  freely,  it  was  not  to'be  thought 
of" 

This  haughty  decision  closed  the  reflections  of  Nathalie, 
who,  like  most  proud  and  haughty  persons,  always  kept  by  her 
a  convenient  stock  of  little  imaginary  quarrels.  She  now  per- 
ceived that  the  room  was  silent ;  for  since  her  last  remark  no 
one  had  spoken.  She  sat  back  on  the  couch,  one  arm  support- 
ing her  cheek,  her  brow  clouded,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor, 
which  her  foot  tapped  with  mingled  impatience  and  irritation. 
Though  Monsieur  de  Sainville  had  laid  down  the  Revue,  he 
did  not  think  fit  to  speak.  The  Canoness  knitted  with  her 
usual  zeal ;  she  occasionally  looked  up,  as  if  thinking  this 
silence  awkward.  She  coughed,  by  way  of  opening  the  con- 
versation ;  but  this  efibrt  having  failed,  she  relapsed  into  silence  ; 
her  look,  however,  still  sought  her  nephew,  and  wandering 
from  him  to  Nathalie,  rested  at  length  on  the  young  girl. 

''■  Mo?i  Dieu  !  how  very  strange,"  she  exclaimed,  in  her 
Budcen  way,  and  laying  down  her  knitting  as  she  spoke  ;  '•  I 
wonder  I  did  not  notice  it  before." 

Both  Nathalie  and  Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  up. 

"It  is  really  extraordinary,"    she  continued,  '-especially 
when  one  considers  that   there  is  no  relationship.     Do  vou 
7 


146  NATHALIE. 

think,  Armand,  the  Montolieus  were  ever  allied  to   the  Saia 

villes?"  .,..'. 

''  No,"  replied  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  with  perfect  gravity ; 
''  I  do  not  think  they  were." 

Nathalie  colored,  and  looked  indignant :  Aunt  Radegonde, 
without  intending  it,  humbled  her.  She  knew  too  well  that 
Montolieu  was  not  a  name  likely  to  be  allied  to  one  of  the 
first  names  of  the  province  ;  and  being  thoroughly  demo- 
cratic in  feeling,  whatever  she  might  be  in  theory,  she  proud- 
ly resented  all  social  and  aristocratic  distinctions. 

"  Did  you  notice  it,  Petite  ?"  resumed  the  Canoness  ;  "  did 
you  see  it,  Armand  ?  That  was  why  her  face  seemed  so  fa- 
miliar to  me." 

"See  what,  aunt?" 

"  Why  the  striking  likeness  of  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  to 
our  aunt  Adelaide's  portrait." 

Nathalie  started  slightly,  but  she  never  changed  her  atti- 
tude to  look  round.  The  likeness  had  not  passed  unheeded 
by  her.  She  knew  that,  in  mere  beauty,  at  least,  the  Proven- 
cal girl  and  the  once  great  lady  could  have  stood  side  by  side: 
sisters  in  loveliness  and  grace.  A  half-mocking,  half  trium- 
phant smile  trembled  on  her  lips,  and  for  a  moment  lit  up  her 
changing  features.  Oh  !  youth  and  beauty,  whilst  your  de- 
lightful power  is  felt — and  when  will  it  cease  ? — ^well  may  the 
happy  ones  who  possess  you,  smile  at  the  unavailing  barriers 
erected  by  man's  jealous  pride.  Reconciled  to  herself  and  re- 
stored to  good  humor,  Nathalie  looked  up  half-curiously,  half- 
shyly  to  hear  what  Monsieur  de  SainvIUe  would  say.  He 
scanned  her  features  narrowly,  then  looked  at  the  portrait, 
eyed  her  once  again,  and  smiled. 

"  Yes,"  said  he  slowly,  "  there  is  a  likeness." 

There  was  nothing  in  the  words  beyond  their  plain  mean- 
ing, but  his  look  was  indulgent  and  very  kind ;  at  least  Na- 
thalie thought  so:  she  thought  that  as  it  rested  on  her,  that 
look  seemed  to  say :  "  My  dear  child,  do  not  trouble  yourself 
for  any  little  heedless  things  you  may  have  said :  I  shall  not 
think  the  worse  of  you  for  an  evening's  nonsense.  No  doubt, 
you  are  eighteen  ;  and  may  fancy  yourself  very  wise  ;  but, 
take  my  word  for  it,  you  are  a  child  yet,  and  not  much  wiser 
than  when  you  ate  the  berries." 

Did  he  really  mean  this,  or  had  she  simply  imagined  it  ? 
Nathalie  did  not  know,  and  felt  puzzled.  She  consoled  herself 
ft'ith  the  assurance,  that  it  was  a  matter  of  no  importance  to 


NATHALIE.  147 

her  ;  that  she  really  did  not  care.  But  though  she  repeated 
this  to  herself  often  enough,  she  did  not  lose  the  opportunity 
of  ascertaininir  the  truth  which  oifered  itself  to  her  on  the  fol- 
lowing  day. 

She  had  been  taking  a  long  walk  with  the  Canoness  in  the 
garden,  and  before  going  in,  they  had  sat  down  in  a  recess  of 
the  box-wood  hedge.  It  was  a  fine  evening,  mild  and  hazy,  as 
Nathalie  sat  by  the  Canoness  on  the  old  stone  bench,  still  warm 
with  the  heat  of  the  sun,  which  was  slowly  passing  away  from 
the  garden.  She  abandoned  herself  with  a  vague  pleasure  to 
the  dreamy  charm  of  the  hour.  On  their  left,  embosomed 
amongst  its  dark  evergreens,  arose  the  gray  old  chateau,  but  it 
looked  gay  and  airy,  not  sombre,  in  the  mellow  light,  which 
softened  the  hues  and  outlines  of  every  thing  on  which  it  fell  : 
on  their  right  extended  the  second  terrace,  dark,  lonely,  and 
silent,  save  for  the  little  fountain,  which  sent  forth  a  low, 
pla.shing  sound. — monotonous,  yet  soothing  to  the  ear.  Whilst 
listening  to  it.  Nathalie  reclined  back  in  the  seat,  and  watched 
the  red  sunlight  gradually  fading  from  the  smooth  lawn  before 
her.  Thence  her  glance  wandered  along  the  windings  of  one 
of  the  many  paths  around  them,  until  it  was  arrested  by  a 
graceful  statue  of  Diana,  rising  white  and  motionless  in  the 
cool  green  light  of  a  distant  recess.  The  fleet  and  stately  hun- 
tress was  represented  in  the  act  of  seizing  by  its  antlers  a  stag, 
overtaken  in  the  chase.  Whilst  Nathalie  gazed  thoughtfully 
on  this  copy  of  a  well-known  antique,  the  evening  breeze  arose, 
and  brought  her  from  the  neighboring  plantations  the  strong 
and  penetrating  odor  of  the  pine-trees.  Then,  suddenly,  the 
scene  of  a  long-forgotten  episode  of  her  childhood  recurred  to 
her,  and  an  involuntary  smile  flitted  across  her  features. 

"  Petite,"  exclaimed  the  Canoness,  "  you  are  thinking  of 
something  pleasant  or  amusing ;  come  do  not  be  selfish  and 
keep  it  to  yourself" 

"  Marraine,"  repr.jd  Nathalie,  smiling  again,  and  addret^sing 
her  by  the  familiar  appellation  the  Canoness  had  authorized, 
but  which,  in  her  pride,  the  young  girl  would  not  use  before 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  on  the  preceding  evening;  '-Marraine, 
you  will  laugh,  call  me  romantic,  and  chide." 

'•Never  mind  ; — it  is  a  second  edition  of  the  berries?" 
•  Almost ;  but  first,  tell  me  which  of  the  heathen  deities 
you  prefer  ?" 

"  Keally,"  candidly  answered  Aunt  Radegonde,  -I  do  not 
recollect  ever  thinking  about  tliem.'' 


1 48  NATHALIE. 

"  What  !  not  tliink  of  the  nymphs  in  their  limpid  stroanil 
and  cool  grottoes  ?  Have  you  not  one  there  sleeping  for  ever 
in  her  ivy  couch  ?  Not  think  of  Flora,  as  fresh  and  pure  as 
the  first  flowers  of  spring ;  of  cheerful  Pomona,  with  her  basket 
ever  full  of  ripe,  sunny  fruit ;  of  green-haired  Nereids,  gliding 
along  the  glassy  ocean;  or  magic  Syrens,  that  haunt  the  rocks 
and  depths  of  the  sea,  to  lure  away  unwary  mariners  ?  And, 
above  all,  not  think  of  Diana,  that  proud  and  virgin  huntress 
of  the  deep  woods  of  Greece?  Oh!  I  have,  as  a  child, 
thought  of  them  all,  of  her  especially ;  often, — ay,  many  a 
time  ;  and  this  brings  me  to  what  you  want  to  know.  I  could 
not  help  smiling  awhile  back,  because,  as  I  saw  that  distant 
statue,  and  as  the  wind  rose,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  pine- 
trees  came  to  us  here,  I  remembered  a  summer  morning  I  spent 
in  a  lonely  wood  a  long  time  ago.  I  had  intentionally  strayed 
away  there,  instead  of  going  to  school.  It  was  not  a  very  vast 
or  romantic  wood,  but  I  easily  converted  it  into  a  dark  and 
solitary  Thracian  forest,  sacred  to  the  goddess.  Bow  and  ar- 
rows I  had  none,  but  I  hunted  a  few  brown  squii-rels,  who  gayly 
'eaped  from  bough  to  bough,  and  led  me  a  weary  chase.  A 
little  stream,  a  mere  silver  thread  of  water,  ran  through  the 
wood ;  I  sat  down  on  its  margin,  and  imagined  it  to  be  one  of 
those  deep  fountains  of  icy  chillness,  near  which  Diana  and  her 
nymphs  rested  from  the  chase ;  at  length,  fairly  overpowered 
with  fatigue,  I  fell  fast  asleep,  and  thus  I  was  found,  brought 
home,  scolded,  and  duly  punished  for  my  escapade^  by  the  loss 
of  all  my  holidays.  This  quite  banished  Diana  and  her  life 
of  solitary  freedom  from  my  thoughts,  until  just  now,  when 
the  whole  scene  rose  before  me,  as  I  looked  at  the  statue,  and 
I  saw  myself  again  a  child  in  the  wood,  where,  half-pleased, 
half-afraid,  I  started,  and  listened  to  every  breeze  which 
brought  me.  from  some  mysterious  depths,  the  wild  yet  pleas- 
ing odor  of  the  pine-tree." 

Too  indulgent  to  chide,  and  j^et  not  quite  able  to  sympa- 
thize with  the  romantic  fancies  of  the  Provencal  girl,  the 
Canoness  coughed,  and  shook  her  head  gently. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  length,  "you  were  quite  a  child, — so 
there  is  not  much  harm  in  all  this ;  besides,  we  are  alone  to- 
day. Petite." 

Nathalie  looked  up,  flushed,  in  a  moment. 

''Does  that  make  any  difference?"  she  asked,  rather 
quickly. 

But   the  Canoness  had  been  meditating  all  day  a  homilj 


NATHALIE.  14S 

on  the  young  girl's  UgereU  and  want  of  prudent  reserve,  and 
she  was  quite  determined  that  Nathalie  should  have  the  benefit 
of  it  now.  It  proved  rather  a  tedious  homily ;  but  so  gentle  in 
spirit,  and  evidently  so  kindly  meant,  that  Nathalie  only 
smiled,  and  never  dreamed  of  taking  offence. 

"  You  see,  Petite,"  sententiously  observed  the  Canoness, 
"  there  are  certain  secrets " 

"  I  have  no  secrets  !"  interrupted  Nathalie. 

"  Oh !  Petite." 

"  None,  I  assure  you,  and  it  is  well  for  me ;  I  labor,  as  you 
said  just  now,  under  an  infirmity  of  speech ;  I  cannot  keep  ray 
tongue  quiet  when,  as  I  feel, — alas  !  always  too  late, — I  ought 
to  do  so.  I  do  not  like  silence :  it  is  unsociable,  cheerless,  - 
and  if  to  talk  be  a  sin " 

"  It  is  a  weakness,  a  feminine  weakness,  men  say, — but 
never  believe  that,  child ;  it  is  a  vile  calumny." 

"  I  fear  I  am  very  weak,  for  I  like  it " 

"  How  strange  !     I  dislike  talking." 

"  Alas  !  I  do  not,"  replied  Nathalie,  unable  to  repress  an  arch 
smile.  "  Not  speak  !  why,  there  are  times  when  I  would  sooner 
talk  to  the  trees  and  bushes  than  remain  silent.  Knowincr 
well  this  fatal  indiscretion,  I  have  made  it  a  rule  to  have  no 
secrets;  there  is  really  not  one  earthly  thing  I  have  to  hide. 
May  I  not  therefore  talk  without  any  other  fear  than  that  of 
annoying  those  who  may  chance  to  hear  me  ?" 

"Ay,  Petite,  and  if  we  had  been  alone  last  evening; — 
there,  you  need  not  color  up  so." 

'•  But,  madame."  objected  Nathalie,  somewhat  proudly  ;  '•  I 
do  not  think  I  said  any  thing  so  very  wrong,  though  I  have  no 
doubt  it  was  indiscreet  and  foolish  enough." 

'•  True,  Petite ;  but  men  have  such  peculiar  ideas.  In 
short,  I  feared  you  would  injure  yourself  in  the  opinion  of 
Monsieur  de  Sainville,  who  cannot  laave  that  deep  insight  into 
female  character  which  I  possess.  So,  to  learn  what  he 
thought,  as  well  as  to  remove  any  unpleasing  impression,  1 
spoke  to  him  this  morning." 

She  paused  and  looked  at  Nathalie  ;  the  young  girl's  color 
2ame  and  went,  her  head  drooped  slightly  on  her  bosom,  her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  earth,  and  the  dark  fringe  of  her  eye- 
lashes rested  almost  on  her  cheek ;  she  had  plucked  a  twig  of 
boxwood  from  the  hedge,  and  was  now  pulling  it  slowly  to 
cieces,  leaf  by  leaf:  she  looked  like  a  child  at  fault,  and  whom 
a  word  can  make  either  penitent  or  rebellious. 


150  NATHALIE. 

"  Well,"  coutlnued  the  Canoness,  "  I  si^oke  very  delicately, 
of  course — so  delicately,  that  at  first  he  could  not  make  out 
what  I  meant.  •  Oh  !'  he  said,  at  length,  'you  are  talking  of 
Mademoiselle — what  is  her  other  name  besides  Montolieu-— 
Nathalie — ay,  Mademoiselle  Nathalie.  Well,  aunt,  what  of 
her  V  '  Why,  Arraand,  I  only  wanted  to  explain  to  you,  that 
being  so  young,  gay,  and  pretty — '  pretty  !'  he  interrupted, 
'how  do  you  know  she  is  pretty?  I  looked  at  her  last  night, 
and  she  never  kept  the  same  face  for  five  minutes  at  a  time,  and 
I  think  that  her  temper  is  not  unlike  her  face.'  You  see,  Petite, 
how  he  noticed  about  the  knitting.  Well,  I  made  the  best  of 
it,  and  said  I  knew  by  my  own  experience,  how  to  drop  one's 
stitches  would  provoke  a  saint,  and  so  on.  He  heard  me  to  the 
end,  smiled,  and  said,  '  Be  easy,  aunt,  there  is  no  harm  in  the 
poor  child.'  But  though  it  is  all  right  as  yet,  pray,  Petite,  be 
more  prudent  another  time." 

Nathalie  did  not  answer,  but  her  look  was  no  longer  fixed 
on  the  earth  ;  she  seemed  little  pleased,  and  more  rebellious 
than  penitent. 

"  And  what  do  I  care  about  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  or  his 
opinion  of  me  ?"  said  the  silent  but  sufficiently  expressive  curl 
of  her  lip. 

Aunt  Radegonde  perceived  she  had  done  more  harm  than 
good. 

"  Petite,"  she  said,  gravely,  "  I  begin  to  think  you  are  not 
easy  to  manage.  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you  something ;  I  see 
I  must,  to  reconcile  you  to  Armand,  who  meant  well.  What 
do  you  think  he  added,  when  he  asked  me  how  I  knew  that 
you  were  pretty  ?" 

"  Really,  I  cannot  tell ;  something  very  flattering,  no  doubt. 
To  have  no  harm  in  one  comprises  every  thing  good,  does  it 
not?" 

"  Oh,  no  !  He  only  said,  '  She  is  more  than  pretty,  aunt ; 
she  is  charming.'  " 

Did  the  compliment  soothe  Nathalie's  wounded  pride? 
No  trace  of  the  feeling  appeared,  at  least  on  her  features. 

"  Why  !"  exclaimed  the  Canoness,  somewhat  surprised,  "  I 
thought  you  would  feel  flattered.  Petite  !  Let  me  tell  you 
that  Armand  is  difficult  to  please,  and  that  I  have  not  heard 
him  say  so  of  any  woman,  since  his  return." 

Still  Nathalie  did  not  reply.  When  she  spoke  at  length, 
it  was  to  say  that  the  evening  was  very  cool,  and  that  she  fel4 
chilly. 


NATHALIE.  1  5  1 


Aunt  Ptadcgonde  often  declared  that  slie  had  great  experi- 
ence and  penetration,  and,  above  all,  that  she  understood  girls 
thoroughly  ;  but,  on  this  occasion,  both  acquired  knowledge 
and  native  genius  were  at  fault ;  and,  whether  Nathalie  was 
pleased  or  not,  piqued  or  flattered,  was  more  than  she  could 
discover. 


CHAPTER  XL 


A  WEEK  had  passed  away.  Madame  Marceau — or  to  give 
her  the  name  which,  notwithstanding  her  brother's  tacit  disap- 
probation, she  persisted  in  assuming — Madame  Marceau  de 
Sainville— had  prolonged  her  visit  at  the  chateau  de  Jussac, 
and,  to  Nathalie's  great  satisfaction,  did  not  seem  inclined  to 
return  in  haste. 

The  autumn,  which  now  began,  was  the  finest  that  had  for 
many  years  been  known  in  Normandy,  and  that  week  was  one 
of  uninterrupted  fair  weather.  The  sun  rose  and  set  with  un- 
clouded splendor  ;  the  mornings  were  clear  and  sunny  ;  the 
days  warm  and  bright ;  the  evenings  gorgeous  and  magnificent. 
As  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  now  never  at  home  in  the  day- 
time, Nathalie  wandered  about  the  garden  and  the  gi-ounds 
with  unlimited  freedom,  and  with  a  sense  of  enjoyment  not 
marred  or  disturbed  by  the  prospect  of  meeting  her  severe- 
looking  host.  In  a  few  days,  there  was  not  a  retired  nook  in 
ihe  whole  place  that  had  not  become  as  familiar  to  her  as  if  she 
had  been  born  and  bred  in  Sainville.  In  the  intoxication  ol 
iier  delightful  freedom,  she  no  longer  read  or  worked  ;  the 
autumn  days  were  brief  and  few — she  resolved  to  enjoy  them 
to  the  utmost ;  she  accordingly  visited  the  solitary  green-house 
in  the  morning,  the  cool  retreat  of  the  sleeping  nymph  at  noon, 
and  she  lingered  by  the  pebbly  bank  of  the  little  river  at  even- 
ing-time, wiien  deeper  shadows  fell  on  the  dark  yet  transparent 
stream,  and  the  red  sunshine  slowly  passed  away  from  the  hills 
beyond. 

Notwithstanding  the.se  long  walks,  Nathalie  spent  tho 
greater  portion  of  her  time  with  the  Canoness.  They  sat  to- 
gether in  the  lime-tree  avenue,  and  had  endless  conversations, 
which  Nathalie,  however,  never  seemed  to  find  tedious  ;  indeed, 
she  proved  so  excellent  and  attentive  a  listener,  that  she  great- 


1 62  NATHALIE. 

ly  flattered  the  simple  Canoness,  and  quite  won  her  heart 
They  met  Monsieur  de  Sainville  at  dinner,  and  he  generally 
came  to  spend  two  or  three  hours  in  his  aunt's  boudoir  in  the 
course  of  the  evening.  To  Nathalie,  he  was  always  strictly 
polite ;  yet.  whether  for  his  own  peculiar  gratification,  or  for 
the  more  praiseworthy  purpose  of  trying  the  youn^  girl's  tem- 
per and  patience,  he  seldom  failed  to  vex  or  provoke  her  in 
some  way  or  other  before  they  parted.  She  retired  to  her 
room  greatly  offended,  woke  up  somewhat  mollified,  and  went 
down  to  breakfast  on  the  following  morning  not  exactly  know 
infj  how  she  ought  to  behave  to  Monsieur  de  Sairville.  With 
out  giving  her  time  to  reflect,  he  quietly  settled  the  point, 
either  by  taking  it  as  granted  that  nothing  had  occurred  to 
disturb  their  mutual  harmony,  or  by  uttering  some  well-timed 
remark,  which  at  once  restored  her  to  good  humor.  Nathalie 
thus  learned  practically,  that  if  her  host  knew  how  to  provoke 
feminine  anger,  he  was  not  inexpert  in  the  more  difficult  art  of 
soothing  it  again.  But  though  he  succeeded  in  pacifying  her, 
he  could  not  remove  the  unfavorable  impression  thus  pro- 
duced— an  impression  which  daily  grew  stronger  in  her  mind 
against  him.  All  that  Rose  could  urge,  failed  in  satisfying 
Nathalie  that  her  host  behaved  well  towards  her. 

On  the  day  fixed  for  Madame  Marceau's  return,  the  two 
sisters  were  seated  together  in  the  dull  salon  of  Madame  La- 
vigne,  and  discussing  this  subject  somewhat  warmly. 

''  Is  he  impertinent  ?"  asked  Rose. 

"  No,  certainly  he  is  not." 

"  Is  he  patronizing?" 

"  No;  he  may  be  proud  enough  of  his  name,  wealth  and  sta- 
tion ;  but  it  is  only  fair  to  acknowledge  that  he  never  shows  it." 

'•  Then  what  does  he  do?" 

'•  He  treats  me  like  a  child,  Rose  :  which  I  consider  a  very 
unwarrantable  freedom." 

Her  sister  could  not  repress  a  smile. 

'•  Are  you  not  a  child  ?"  she  said. 

"  A  child  !  Rose  :  that  is  too  bad.  I  see  you  are  just  like 
him  ;  but  no,  for  you  talk  sensibly  to  me  ;  he  never  conde- 
scends to  do  so.  He  scarcely  speaks,  yet  makes  me  say  things 
at  which  I  afterwards  bite  my  tongue.  The  other  evening,  oa 
going  up  to  my  room,  I  thought  what  a  strange  man  he  was, 
and  what  strange  things  he  had  said  ;  but  on  examining  the 
matter,  I  found  his  most  original  remark  was,  that  ennui  waa 
the  serpent  which  tempted  Eve.     Yet  with  his  provoking  way 


JTATIIALIE.  153 

of  looking,  lialf-smiling  and  putting  careless  questions,  lio  had 
made  me  utter  one  folly  after  another.  I  resolved  to  be  on  my 
guard ;  but  it  was  of  no  use,  for  the  very  next  evening  I  al- 
lowed myself  to  be  again  provoked  into  the  utterance  of  I 
know  not  how  many  foolish  and  impertinent  things." 

"  You  could  not  remain  silent !" 

"  Not  when  I  had  begun  ;  it  was  like  a  broken  string  of 
beads — whilst  you  tried  to  fasten  it  at  one  end  the  beads  slip 
off  at  the  other.  V/hat  vexes  me  most  in  this  is,  that  he  no- 
tices me  at  all.  I  am  no  child ;  indeed,  I  could  understand 
him  very  well  if  he  would  only  condescend  to  treat  me  like  a 
sensible  person, — I  shall  get  angry  if  you  smile  so,  Rose, — but 
no,  though  he  can  talk  admirably,  as  I  perceived  yesterday, 
when  some  visitors  came,  it  is  not  worth  while  addi-essing  a 
foolish  girl  of  eighteen  in  that  strain." 

'•  Nathalie,"  said  her  sister,  very  gravely,  "  there  is  a  th,ug 
I  cannot  understand ;  you  complain  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville, 
and  yet  you  confessed  awhile  ago,  you  were  delighted  at  the 
prospect  of  spending  the  winter  at  the  chateau." 

"  Why,  Rose,  it  is  very  plain,"  replied  Nathalie,  coloring  ; 
"  I  do  not  care  about  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ;  that  is  why."       • 

Rose  eyed  her  sister  seriously. 

"  How  thoughtless  you  are,"  she  said  ;  '•  if  your  pride  has 
already  suffered  in  that  house,  will  it  not  suffer  still  more  ?  I 
wish  you  could  have  spent  the  winter  here  with  me." 

"  Heaven  forbid  !"  quickly  exclaimed  Nathalie,  who  colored 
immediately  at  the  fervor  with  which  she  had  spoken. 

''  Yes,"  said  Rose,  looking  round  her  with  a  thoughtful  look 
and  a  mournful  smile  ;  '•  yes,  you  are  young,  gay,  and  this  is  a 
very  dreary  place.  Yet,  Nathalie,  there  are  greater  misfor- 
tunes than  a  dull  home,  a  dull  sister,  and  a  cross  aunt ;  and 
though  it  is  useless,  I  wish  you  were  farther  away  from  a  world, 
and  from  persons  a  great  deal  too  much  above  you  for  your  hap- 
piness or  your  pride.  How  will  you  feel  when  you  leave  your 
present  home  for  some  school  like  Mademoiselle  Dantin's  ?" 

"  Miserable,  no  doubt :  but,  Rose,  why  trouble  my  head 
about  such  things,  when  there  is  a  winter,  an  age,  before  me? 
Why,  before  the  spring  comes  round  something  will  have 
turned  up." 

'•  What  ?"  asked  Rose. 

'•  Oh,  never  mind  what !  something  good,  of  course.  Why, 
Rose,  I  am  eighteen, — a  gay  heiress  just  entered  into  posses- 
sion  " 


J  54  NATHALIE. 

"Of  what?" 

"  Of  hope,  dear  Rose, — Hope,  the  fairest  lady  eye  ever  saw; 
and  rich. — ay.  with  castles  beyond  number.  Tell  me  not  I  am 
poor  and  friendless  !  Why,  there  is  wealth  before  me  I  shall 
never  live  to  spend,  and  a  friend  looks  at  me  from  every  face  I 
meet.  How  can  you  think  to  cast  me  down  on  this  lovely 
morning  ?  Look  at  that  warm  sunshine  which  makes  even  this 
dull  hole  bright ;  at  that  bright  blue  sky  beyond  ;  why,  eTC-n 
the  old  gray  church  tower  looks  gay  and  airy  to-day," 

Rose  said  nothing. 

"  I  told  you,"  continued  her  sister,  '•  that  I  was  an  heiress ; 
I  mistook.  Rose"; — heiress  !  pshaw  !  I  am  queen ;  this  world 
is  my  realm,  my  reign  has  just  begun,  and  every  joy  of  mine 
empire  shall  come  and  do  me  homage.  God  bless  them  all  with 
their  kind  looks  and  pleasant  voices  ;  and  what  a  long,  endless 
train  they  look,  Rose." 

"  Her  head  has  been  turned  by  romances,"  said  Rose,  lay- 
ing down  her  work. 

Nathalie  laughed,  and  shook  her  head  with  joyous  grace. 

"As  if  I  read  romances  now  !"  she  said  gayly.     "What! 

*read  fiction  with  truth  itself  before  me  !     I  should  be  a  child 

indeed  !     No.  no.  Rose  ;   I  have  a  wonderful  romance  of  my 

own : — each  day  I  turn  over  a  new  page,  and  at  the  bottom  of 

none  do  I  yet  see  written  the  dark  word, — Finis." 

"  You  are  happy  ;   but  for  how  long?" 

"  For  ever.  Who  speaks  of  the  sorrows  of  life  ?  Strange, 
I  feel  an  inability  to  suffer.  Let  those  mope  and  mourn  who 
will.  I  say  this  world  is  a  gay  place,  and  the  journey  through, 
as  pleasant  a  path  as  ever  was  trod."  * 

"  And  the  nettles  and  the  briars?" 

"  Nettles  and  briars  must  be  plucked  to  sting  ;  and  touch 
them  I  will  not  whilst  there  are  pleasant  wayside  flowers  to 
gather.  Rose,  sorrow  is  of  our  own  seeking.  Some  may  like 
a  taste  of  the  bitter  cup,  by  way  of  change,  but  I  do  not  yet 
feel  cloyed  of  sweetness.  Oh  !  when  one  knows  how  to  set 
about  it,  this  life  is  a  joyful  thing." 

"  And  what  is  it  when  youth  is  passed  ?"  asked  Rose,  sadly 
But  her  sisttr  only  smiled  a  bright,  sunny  smile  that  would 
not  be  dismayed. 

"  It  is  no  use,  Rose,"  she  gayly  said  ;  "  it  is  no  use  ;  it  ia 
like  talking  of  next  spring's  troubles.  I  suppose  youth  must 
fade  ;  the  more  is  the  pity,  but  I  have  years  of  it  before  mo 
yet,  and   I   will   hoard  up  mine  as  a  miser  hoards  his  gold, 


NATHALIE. 


I  feel  as  if  I  could  remain  young  for  ever  ;  why  then  should  1 
get  old '?  You  will  say  others  do  ;  then  I  will  be  original,  and 
strike  out  a  path  of  my  own.  Oh  !  the  glorious  times  of  sim- 
ple faith,  when  travellers  set  forth  to  find  the  fountain  of 
youth!  But  they  miglit  have  stayed  at  home,  Rose;  for  to 
keep  a  young  heart  is  the  only  secret,  and  the  fountain  flows 
freely  for  all." 

'•  And  I  verily  believe,"  replied  Rose,  smiling,  in  spite  of 
all  her  efforts  to  keep  grave,  "  that  you  will  drink  of  that  foun- 
tain for  ever." 

"  I  told  you  so  ;  and  just  in  the  same  way  shall  I  be  rich, 
by  making  all  I  behold  mine  in  enjoyment.  .  People  possess, 
that  they  may  enjoy.  I  enjoy  at  once,  without  giving  myself 
the  trouble  of  possessing.  You  may  smile.  Rose,  but  I  assure 
you  I  am  neither  proud  nor  ambitious :  the  crumbs  and  mites 
that  fall  from  my  neighbor's  table  of  happiness  will  do  very 
well  for  me." 

"  You  are  a  strange  child,"  said  Rose,  again  laying  down 
her  work  to  look  more  earnestly  at  her  handsome  sister,  whose 
laughing  eyes  and  animated  color  made  her  look  even  more 
than  usually  handsome ;  '•  shrewd  and  wise,"  she  continued, 
"  even  through  all  your  folly  and  your  foolish  dreams." 

"  Do  not  touch  my  dreams."  observed  Nathalie,  looking  up 
quickly ;  "  they  have  been  my  only  consolation  many  a  time. 
Oh  !  the  hours  I  have  spent  in  Mademoiselle  Dantin's  garden, 
under  the  old  beech-tree,  in  the  school,  in  my  room,  not  reading 
novels,  as  you  so  sagely  fancy,  but  dreaming — ay,  to  my  heart's 
content.  Why,  of  the  waking  visions  which  haunted  me  then, 
I  can  still  remenibor  some  with  all  the  vividness  of  reality, — 
the  imaginary  spots,  the  dreary  deserts,  the  wild  adventures, 
the  perils,  escapes,  and  sudden  joys  of  a  deliverance  thrill 
through  me  still ;  they  come  back  to  me  even  now  with  the  dull 
school-room  where  they  had  birth  :  the  low  murmuring  hum  of 
the  pupils  conning  over  their  lessons,  and  the  quick  pattering 
of  the  winter  rain  against  the  window-panes." 

"  And  where  was  the  use  of  all  this  2"  asked  Rose,  very 

joldly. 

"  To  make  me  happy  for  a  few  hours,"  composedly  answered 
Nathalie,  "  which  was  more  than  any  thing  around  me  could 
have  done." 

Rose  moved  restlessly  on  her  chair,  and  gave  her  sister  a 
dreary  look ;  when  she  spoke,  her  tone  was  almost  ironical. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "you  call  this  imagination?" 


156  NATHALIE. 

"  You  may  call  it  so  if  you  like,  Rose ;  it  was  happinea* 
lo  me." 

She  spoke  gently,  but  Rose  did  not  seem  mollified. 

'•  Ay.  happiness  as  real  as  that  of  Alnaschar." 

Nathalie  smiled  wistfully. 

'•  I  love  that  story,  Rose,  and  I  believe  every  one  lovc3  it. 
We  are  all  Alnaschars  in  our  way,  and  there  lies  the  charm  of 
Ihe  old  Arabian  tale." 

"  But  will  you  tell  me  what  remained  to  you  of  your  imagi- 
uary  hnppiness?"  persisted  Rose. 

"  Not  a  basket  of  broken  glass,  but  pleasant  remembran- 
ces," replied  Nathalie,  who  seemed  to  take  a  perverse  pleasure 
in  teazing  her  sister. 

'•  Oh  !  if  you  only  knew  how  pleasant  and  easy  it  is.  Rose  ; 
the   school-garden  was  not  very  fine,   but  I  could   convert  it 
into  any   thing.     Why,    an  old    moss-grown    wall    has    made 
me  as  pensive  as  the  most  time-honored   ruins ;  a  group  of 
aspens   has    been  to  me   as  a  whole  forest, — a  rivulet   as    a 
mighty    river.     We    want    from  nature  but    the     first    few 
primitive  notes  :  in  us  lies  the  true  melody  with  its  endless 
variations.     I  remember  an  old  chateau  in  Provence  that  was 
to  me  as  a  long  poem.     It  stood  on  the  lonely  beach  within 
view  of  the  sea.     It  was  very  bare  and  dreary  within — what 
mattered  it  to  me  ?     I  hung  the  walls  with  soft  damask  and 
rarest  tapestry.     Divine  statues  looked  down  in  silence  from 
every  niche,  and  imaginary  pictures  opened   long   vistas   of 
beauty  ;  clear  skies,  azure  seas,  and  wild  woods, — every  thing 
was  there.     I  filled  the  hall  with  the  gayest  company,  a  glo- 
rious company,  that  was  of  every  land  and  all  ages,  that  1 
could  summon  or  dismiss  at  will.     Rose,  do  not  frown,  do  not 
look  so  severe — indeed,  our  world  is  too  narrow.    What  avails 
i  L  that  we  are  born  and  have  our  being,  if  we  must  be  shut  up 
within  so  limited  a  sphere  ?     Why  may  we  not  see  and  know 
those  we  could  love  and  venerate  ?    Alas  !  those  that  might 
have  been  every  thing  to  us  too  often  belonged  to  some  other 
age — they  were  gone  before  we  had  birth.     Have  you  never 
felt  cheated  and  betrayed  out  of  your  due,  because  that  being 
remained  perforce  a  stranger  ?     Oh  !  affection  should  not  be 
the  creature  of  a  day ;  the  gates  of  death  should  not  possess 
that  mysterious  power, — they  should  not  be  that  awful  barrier 
iietween  the  quick  and  the  dead  !"     Why  is  this.  Rose?     Are 
we  such  miserable  creatures,  so  poor  in  heart,  that  there  is  only 
room  for  those  around  us, — for  one  little  narrow  c'rcle  !" 


NATHALIE.  15? 

Her  countenance,  late  so  gay,  was  now  grave,  her  look  earn 
Slat  and  thoughtful,  her  face  turned  towards  Rose,  in»^}uiringly  ; 
but  her  sister  coldly  answered  : 

"  Your  talk  is  too  high-flown  for  me  ;  I  suppose  you  will 
fall  in  lore  with  some  dead  hero,  one  day,  and  quarrel  with 
Providence,  because  you  cannot  have  him.  I  wish  you  would 
confine  your  speech  and  feelings  to  reality." 

"  Eeality,  reality  !"  impatiently  exclaimed  Nathalie  :  "  why 
reality  -is  but  the  dregs  of  the  cup,  Rose ;  imagination  is  th6 
clear  red  wine." 

'■'■  The  bubbling  foam  would  have  been  a  more  appropriate 
emblem,"  said  Rose,  rather  ironically. 

Nathalie  tapped  her  foot  impatiently. 

"  You  may  say  what  you  like,  Rose,"  she  warmly  exclaimed, 
'■  but  take  imagination  from  life,  and  nothing  remains.  Oh  f 
reality  is  too  cold  and  cheerle&s  a  dame  for  me.  I  once  saw  an 
old  ruin  in  the  sunshine :  the  moss,  the  ivy,  the  gay  yellow 
wall  flower  peeped  from  every  cranny ;  a  bird  was  lining  its 
nest  in  a  hole,  and  green  lizards,  glittering  like  emeralds,  came 
in  and  out  and  basked  in  the  light :  the  sky  was  blue  beyond, 
the  sun  shone  very  brightly.  Rose,  it  was  the  gayest  ruin 
you  ever  saw  ;  just  the  sort  of  place  that  would  give  one  light- 
ness of  heart,  and  a  wish  to  sing.  I  passed  by  it  a  few  days 
later  :  the  sky  was  dark  and  dull — it  had  been  raining.  The 
wall-flowers  were  beaten  about  by  the  wind,  the  moss  hung 
dripping  against  the  old  stones,  the  ivy  clung  to  them  like  a 
dark  pall, — bird,  lizards,  sunshine,  all  were  gone, — reality  was 
there  alone.  Now,  Rose,  if  one  can  keep  the  sunshine  of  life 
for  ever  over  that  cold  stony  ruin,  reality,  where  is  the  harm  !' 

"  Wait  to  see,  until  your  first  sorrow  comes,"  said  Rose, 
briefly. 

"  Rose,  you  are  very  unkind  ;  you  do  all  you  can  to  de- 
press me.  I  am  endeavoring  to  show  you  some  other  way  to 
happiness,  besides  that  which  lies  through  the  miserably  dull 
route  you  call  reality.  This  room,  I  suppose,  is  reality  ;  Ma- 
demoiselle Dantin's  horrid  school-room  was  reality  ;  but  I  tell 
you  that  my  world  is  far  more  real,  because  it  is  far  more  beau- 
tiful. We  need  not  see  beauty  to  enjoy  it.  Rose  ;  it  is  inward. 
A  sunbeam,  a  sound,  a  word,  a  breath,  awaken  or  create  all  that 
need  be  the  soul's  desire.  I  have  had  all  sunny  Italy  in  the  deep 
blue  sky  of  noonday  ;  the  plaintive  murmur  of  the  wind  in  the 
branches  of  a  lonely  pine  has  given  me  the  dreary  forests  oi 
the  north,  with  their  gigantic  trees  rising,  dark  and  spectre- 


158  NATHALIE 

like,  through  the  thick  flakes  of  falling  snow,  as  I  once  read  o! 
them  in  some  old  book  of  travels  ;  a  whole  pastoral  landscape, 
with  valley,  low  hills,  quiet  homesteads,  and  homeward-going 
cattle,  has  risen  before  me,  with  the  scent  of  the  new  made  hay 
at  evening.  Why  the  other  morning,  the  low  ripple  of  tho 
little  stream  that  runs  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  brought 
me  back  the  deep  and  hollow  murmur  of  the  sea,  with  its  end- 
less waves  still  breaking  on  the  beach." 

"  Do  you  often  go  on  in  that  way  at  the  chateau  ?"  in- 
quired Rose. 

'•  No,  Rose  ;  for  I  do  not  often  feel  as  I  feel  to-day." 

"  Yes,  I  can  see  something  has  pleased  you,  and  so  you 
behold  all  coideur  de  rose  :  what  is  it?" 

"  I  give  you  my  word  I  do  not  know.  Rose.  But  you  are 
right ;  something  must  have  pleased  me ;  for,  indeed,  as  you 
say,  every  thing  wears  a  most  rosy  hue.  There  surely  never  was 
so  lovely  an  autumn  morning :  the  air  is  soft,  jet  exquisitely 
transparent ;  the  breeze  is  genial  as  a  breeze  of  spring ;  that 
deep  blue  sky  would  almost  do  for  Provence.  Oh  !  Rose,  I 
feel  very  religious  to-day ;  blessed  be  He  who  has  given  us  all 
this  life  and  joy  !" 

The  window  was  open  ;  Nathalie  half-leaned  out,  her  elbow 
resting  on  the  window-sill,  her  cheek  supported  by  the  palm 
of  her  hand.  The  soft  morning  breeze  played  around  her,  and 
fanned  her  cheeks,  whose  deepened  bloom  bespoke  some  in- 
ward emotion  ;  her  eyes  shone  brightly,  but  with  deep  softness 
in  all  their  fire  ;  her  lips  were  slightly  parted,  and  her  breath 
came  fast.  Rose  thought  that  as  she  raised  her  hand  to  ar- 
range her  hair,  it  trembled  slightly.  She  looked  excited,  but 
it  was  the  excitement  which  soon  subsides  into  languor.  Her 
sister  eyed  her  again,  and,  familiar  as  it  was  to  her,  she  now 
wondered  at  the  young  girl's  beauty. 

^'- Mon  Dicu !  what  is  the  matter  with  you  to-day?"  she 
plowly  asked. 

Nathalie  only  smiled. 

"  Has  any  thing  made  you  feel  glad?" 

''  Nothing,  that  1  know  of  Is  it  a  wonder  that  I  should 
DC  gay  ?  Thenhere  comes  one  who  will  do  all  she  can  to  check 
the  mood."  * 

The  door  opened  as  the  spoke,  and  Madame  Lavigne  enter- 
ed, supported  by  Desiree.  who  left  immediately. 

"  Who  was  that  talking  ?"  sharply  asked  the  blind  woman, 
when  Rose  had  helped  her  to  her  seat. 


NATHALIE.  159 

"Guess?"  replied  Xathalie. 

"  Oh  !  you.  Your  voice  sounds  cheerful  to-day.  What  has 
pleased  you?'' 

'•  Nothing,  and  there  is  the  beauty  of  it.  To  be  gay  with 
good  reason  is  no  wonder ;  but  what  joy  so  sweet  as  namelcsa 
joy, — unless  it  be  a  nameless  hope?" 

The  blind  woman  smiled  her  own  sour  smile. 

"  So  you  feel  glad  ?"  she  said 

"  So  glad  that  you  cannot  put  me  out  of  temper." 

'•  We  shall  see.     How  is  the  best  friend?" 

"  Very  well." 

"Kind  still?" 

"  Very  kind." 

"  Have  you  quarrelled  yet  ?" 

"  Quarrelled  !     No  " 

"  Then  he  is  very  foolish." 

Nathalie  looked  annoyed,  but  she  scorned  lO  reply. 

"  There !'  triumphantly  cried  Madame  Lavigne,  "  you  are 
already  vexed." 

"  No.  I  am  not." 

"  Yes,  you  are  ;  and.  poor  child  !  well  you  may  be.  What ! 
have  you  been  a  whole  fortnight  in  his  house,  and  has  he  not 
given  you  an  opportunity  of  showing  your  temper?  Mademoi- 
selle Dantin  knew  your  worth  better  than  that.  I  knew  you 
better  than  that :  we  quarrel  every  time  we  meet,  for  you  arc 
nothing,  unless  when  3'ou  are  teazed." 

"  And  how  do  you  know  I  have  not  been  teazed  ?"  quickly 
asked  Nathalie. 

"  I  knew  I  could  make  you  confess  it,"  said  Madame 
Lavigne,  maliciously. 

"  I  have  confessed  nothing,"  cried  Nathalie,  coloring. 

"  Yes,  you  have,"  replied  the  blind  woman,  smiling  bitterly; 
'•  your  vanity  could  not  resist  the  bait  I  laid  out  for  it.  Oh  ! 
I  know  girls,  and  their  ways.  But  come,  child,  do  not  be  too 
fain,  because  he  notices  you  a  little;  you  amuse  him  just  now, 
but  when  the  novelty  is  worn  off,  why  your  best  friend  will  not 
Ecem  to  know  you  are  in  the  house." 

"  You  cannot  tell,"  said  Nathalie,  a  little  scornfully. 

"  Yes,  I  can ;  do  I  not  know  how  these  things  go  on  ? 
Why,  child,  do  not  be  foolish ;  do  not  forget  you  are  only  hia 
aunt's  companion,  after  all." 

As  her  aunt  uttered  this  taunt,  Rose  looked  at  her  sister. 
She  could  detect  an   expression  of  pain  and  wounded  pride 


160  NATHALIE. 

passing  over  the  features  of  Nathalie,  hut  it  did  not  last;  and 
when  she  spoke,  her  tone  was  composed  and  cool. 

"  Madame."  she  said,  '•  you  quite  mistake  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
viile ;  he  is  not  capricious  or  selfish,  as  you  seem  to  think — as 
such  conduct  would  imply ;  he  treats  me,  not  as  his  aunt's 
companion,  but  as  his  guest." 

"  Capricious  or  selfish  !"  said  Madame  Lavigne.  "  Ah  !  I 
understand — a  hint  about  Rose.  So  your  best  friend  is  not 
that.  And  what  is  your  best  friend  like,  child  ?  Have  you 
any  objection  to  describe  him  to  me  ?" 

"  None,"  unhesitatingly  replied  Nathalie.  "  He  is  good, 
just,  and,  though  cold,  kind.  You  now  know  him  as  well  as 
I  do." 

"  I  do  not  like  perfect  characters,"  snappishly  answered 
Madame  Lavigne. 

She  looked  sour  and  displeased,  and  refused  to  answer, 
save  by  a  cool  nod,  to  the  cheerful  adieu  of  Nathalie,  who  was 
now  preparing  to  depart. 

The  young  girl  was  turning  towards  the  door,  when  it 
opened,  and  admitted  no  less  a  personage  than  Mademoiselle 
Dantin,  accompanied  by  the  Chevalier.  Nathalie  started, 
colored,  and  then,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts,  coiild  scarcely 
keep  grave.  The  schoolmistress  closed  the  door,  and  eyed  her 
former  teacher  with  haughty  majesty ;  the  Chevalier  looked 
both  distressed  and  pleased ;  Rose  remained  calm ;  Madame 
Lavigne  turned  her  head  about,  listened  keenly,  though  not  a 
word  was  spoken,  and  appeai'ed  to  be  conscious  that  something 
agreeable  to  her  was  at  hand. 

"  What !"  she  exclaimed,  rubbing  her  hands,  "  it  is  that 
good,  that  kind  Mademoiselle  Dantin  come  to  pay  us  a  visit ; 
and  the  dear  Chevalier,  too.  My  dear  little  Nathalie,  I  hope 
you  are  not  gone.  Where  are  you,  mignonne  ?  Here  is  Made- 
moiselle Dantin,  whom  you  are  so  fond  of" 

Mademoiselle  Dantin-coughed  a  short  indignant  cough,  and 
looked  daggers,  first  at  her  sightless  friend,  then  at  the  Cheva- 
lier, who  had  respectfully  approached  tlie  young  girl.  A  smile 
trembled  on  Nathalie's  lip ;  she  tried  to  repress  it,  but  in  vain 
—the  smile  broke  forth.  Willing  to  make  the  best  of  an 
awkward  position,  she  turned  towards  the  schoolmistress,  and 
uaid,  frankly : 

''  Is  there  any  reason  why  we  should  not  be  friends  ?" 

Mademoiselle  Dantin  shot  an  angry  glance  at  the  Cheva- 
lier, then  closed  her  eyes  and  gently  inclined  her  head  towards 
her  left  shoulder. 


KATIJALIE.  K>1 

"  Friends!  &Iie  was  in  a  state  of  fi-iendsbip  iyitt  the  whok 
human  race." 

"  I  am  willing  to  believe  it,"  said  Nathalie,  a  little  imi:>a- 
tiently;  "  though  we  did  not  part  exactly  as  friends  part.  I 
believe,  however,  that  you  labored  under  an  honest  mistake. 
If  jou  were  severe,  I  was,  to  say  the  least,  impatient ;  bat 
surely  this  is  no  reason  for  mutual  and  very  unavailiiig  en- 
mity." 

"Enmity,  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  !"  exclaimed  thesehool- 
mistress,  casting  around  her  a  look  of  astonishment ;  "  I  pro- 
test against  the  word  ;  it  is  unnatural  in  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try, though  I  have  no  doubt  that  in  the  unhappy  south  it  is. 
alas  !  frequent  enough." 

The  eyes  of  Nathalie  lit  up  indignantly. 

"  You  are  unchanged,"  she  said  ;  "  but  you  are  right,  quite 
right ; — ye.s,  in  the  south  we  hear  of  enuiity, — but  it  is  a 
breath,  a  word;  here  it  is  unsj^okon,  to  lie  hidden  in  the 
heart." 

Madame  Lavignc  laughed,  and  rubbed  her' hands  with  ma- 
licious glee. 

"  Fine  day  !"  she  .said  ;  "  rather  hot  in  this  room  too  !  Will 
Mademoiselle  Dantin  and  Madem5isellc  Montolieu  both  stay 
and  dine  with  a  poor  invalid  1" 

'•Stay!"  indignantly  cried  Nathalie;  "  stay  in  this  room; 
no — not  one  second  longer." 

The  Chevalier  vainly  began  a  speech  about  amiable  ladies 
and  the  gentleness  of  the  sex.  The  schoolmistress  gave  him  a 
scornful  glance;  Nathalie  had  turned  away,  and  the  door  had 
flown  open  and  again  closed  upon  her.  She  had  reached  the 
door  below,  and  was  vainly  endeavoring  to  unlock  it,  when  a 
hand  arrested  her.  She  turned  round  ;  it  was  Kose,  looking 
grave  and  severe. 

"  Come  in  here,"  said  she,  pointing  to  a  small  and  gloomy 
parlor,  of  which  the  door  stood  half-open.  Nathalie  complied, 
docile  and  subdued  in  an  instant. 

"  Well,  Rose,"  she  hesitatingly  said,  "  I  know  you  are  not 
pleased  ;  but  could  I  help  it  ?  Surely  it  was  spiteful  of  her  to 
gpeak  so  about  the  south." 

"  That  was  no  reason  why  you  should  give  way  to  you? 
temper." 

"  But,  Rose,  I  cannot  bear  it.  Do  you  think,"  she  added, 
whilst  the  pride  of  race  deepened  the  color  on  her  cheek,  "  do 
you  think  I  have  forgotten  that  theae  litigious  Normans  ai'e 


t62  NATHALIE. 

descended  from  the  savage  barbarians  of   the  north,  whilst  we 
are  the  children  of  Greece  and  Rome?" 

"  Try  and  speak  sensibl}',  child,"  said  Rose,  shrugging  her 
shoulders  ;  "  and  pray  remember  that  )'our  sister  is  a  genuine 
and  cool  Normande." 

"  You,  Rose,"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  whilst  her  eyes  glistened ; 
''  Oh  !  you  are  of  those  that  belong  to  no  race  and  no  climo ; 
you  are  a  saint, — an  angel  upon  earth." 

"  Angel  as  I  am,"  decisively  said  Rose,  "  I  am  going  to 
6cold  you." 

"  Scold  !  Rose;  I  will  hear  you  patiently.  Be  just,  and  ac- 
knowledge that  I  have  never  yet  quarrelled  with  you,  or  what 
you  said." 

"  No,  my  poor  child,"  replied  Rose,  who  seemed  a  little 
moved,  '•  and  yet  I  have  been  severe;  you  are  right:  you  have 
been  patient." 

'•  Because  I  love,  I  revere  you.  Rose,"  cried  Nathalie  eager- 
ly, and  pressing  her  sister's  hands  as  she  spoke ;  "  when  I  love 
I  can  be  patieuf,  I  can  endure ;  but  from  such  beings  as  Mad- 
emoiselle Dantin,  or  your  cross  old  aunt, — never." 

'•  Ay,  and  nothing  would  content  you  this  morning  but  to 
teaze  my  aunt." 

"  I  merely  refused  to  gratify  her  ill-nature,  by  speaking  ill 
of  Monsieur  de  Sainville." 

*•  Do  you  think  of  him  all  you  said  ?"  gravely  asked  Rose. 

The  two  sisters  still  stood  in  the  little  parlor,  Nathalie 
with  her  back  to  the  narrow  window,  whence  a  pale  light  de- 
scended on  the  calm  features  of  Rose,  who  detected,  neverthe- 
less, tlie  deepening  color  on  her  sister's  cheek. 

"  If  I  say  that  I  spoke  so  for  the  praiseworthy  purpose  of 
vexing  your  aunt,  you  will  look  grave,  Rose,  will  you  not  ?"  she 
at  length  replied. 

Rose  did  look  very  grave. 

"  I  do  not  understand  this  trifling,  Nathalie  ;  indeed  I  do 
not,''  ihe  said,  very  seriously.  "  Oh  !  if  you  would  only  prom- 
ise me  to  be  prudent !" 

"  Ask  something  I  can  promise.  Rose  ;  that  is  impossible, 
for  it  is  not  in  my  nature  to  fear  ;  and  prudence  is  only  fear, 
with  a  wise  cloak  on." 

"  Then  promise  me  to  remember  a  very  wise  thing  you 
said  upstairs." 

"  A  wise  thing  !  Did  you  say  a  wise  thing,  Rose  ?  Oh  ! 
for  the  wonder  of  having  said  a  wise  thing,  I  will  promise  any 
thing.     What  was  it  ?" 


NATHALIE  1G3 

"  TLat  sorrow  was  of  our  own  seeking,"  gravely  answered 
her  sister. 

''  Did  I  really  say  that  ?"  inquired  Nathalie,  looking  a  lit- 
tle thoughtful ;  '•  and  was  that  a  wise  thing  ?" 

"  A  true  one,  at  least." 

"  Well,  then,  Rose,  I  shall  keep  to  this  wisdom,  and  duti- 
fully avoid  all  sorrow.  I  suppose  this  is  your  meaning — the 
best  means  of  accomplishing  which  is  to  take  all  the  happiness 
this  world  of  ours  can  afford  me." 

Rose  shook  her  head  and  sighed. 

"  Rose,"  said  her  sister,  "  you  are  devout,  but  verily  I  have 
more  fai^^^h  than  you  have.  I  believe  in  happiness,  little  as  I 
have  known  of  it ;  I  believe  in  it  with  my  whole  soul — ay,  with 
my  whole  heart,"  she  added,  pressing  both  her  hands  to  her 
bosom. 

"And  T  also  believe  in  happiness."  answered  Rose,  in  a  low 
tone  ;  "  but  oh  !  sister,  not  in  the  vain,  dreary  happiness  of 
this  world." 

She,  too,  had  clasped  her  hands,  but  as  they  are  clasped  in 
prayer.  When  her  look  met  that  of  her  sister,  it  implied  fer- 
vent faith — the  faith  of  all  that  the  soul  can  hope  of  joy  here- 
after ;  even  as  in  the  clear  look  of  the  younger  girl  might  be 
read  the  deliglitful  hopes  and  divine  promises  which  the  earthly 
future  still  holds  out  to  the  ardent  and  impassioned  soul  of 
youth. 

As  Rose  gazed  on  that  radiant  face,  she  felt,  perhaps,  how 
unavailing  it  was  to  pour  forth  the  fears  and  doubts  of  her 
maturer  years  into  the  car  of  a  being  still  so  rich  in  the  wealth 
of  her  golden  youth.  She  sighed,  but  spoke  no  more,  and 
merely  laid  her  thin  hand  on  the  young  girl's  shoulder,  and 
pressed  her  pale  lips  on  her  clear  brow  in  token  of  adieu. 

They  parted.  As  she  turned  the  angle  of  the  court,  Na- 
thalie looked  round,  and  smiled  again  at  her  grave  sister,  who, 
after  lingering  awhile  on  the  threshold,  was  silently  closing  on 
herself  tlie  door  of  her  gloomy  home. 


164  NATHALIE 


CHAPTER  XII. 


On  entering  the  drawing-room,  Nathalie,  who  had  expected 
to  find  only  the  Canoness,  was  somewhat  disconcerted  to  per- 
ceive Madame  Marceau,  and  a  lady,  in  whom  she  recognized 
Madame  de  Jussac.  After  a  moment  of  hesitation  she  came 
forward,  for,  though  her  presence  was  any  thing  but  agreeable 
to  her,  pride  would  not  allow  her  to  draw  back  or  look  discon- 
certed. 

Madame  Marceau  held  out  her  hand  with  smiling  welcome, 
and  protested  that  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  looked  charmingly. 
This  was  addressed  to  the  lady  by  her  side,  who,  by  acquiescing, 
showed  that  she  knew  who  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  was ;  they 
had  met  at  Mademoiselle  Dantin's  school,  where,  with  little 
regard  to  the  ceremonial  of  rank  or  wealth,  Madame  de  Jussac 
had  once  left  her  daughters  during  a  temporary  absence  at 
Paris. 

Madame  de  Jussac  was  a  fair  and  aristocratic  lady  of  mid- 
dle age.  She  had  been  handsome,  and  was  handsome  still, — 
but  of  a  pale  and  tranquil  sort  of  beauty,  that  contrasted  strik- 
ingly with  the  dark  and  anxious  face  of  her  friend.  She  sel- 
dom spoke,  yet  no  one  thought  her  silent.  When  Madame 
Marceau  addressed  her,  she  answered  with  a  gentle  inclination 
of  the  head,  a  quiet  smile  that  displayed  her  ivory  teeth,  or  a 
slow  look  of  her  soft  blue  eyes,  and  all  this  was  quite  as  signi- 
ficant as  the  other  lady's  full  and  stately  speech.  She  seemed 
as  averse  to  unnecessary  motion  as  to  superfluous  discourse ; 
once  she  had  fairly  settled  herself  on  a  couch  or  sofa,  she  did 
not  care  to  leave  it,  but  reclined  there  for  hours,  in  an  attitude 
of  repose  that  was  not  without  a  certain  indolent  grace. 
Her  chief  occupation  seemed  to  be  to  fan  herself  slowly  during 
the  heat  of  the  day.  The  first  day  of  her  sojourn  at  Sainville 
— for  she  had  come  to  stay  a  week — appeared  very  dull  to 
Nathalie.  Aunt  Radegonde  had  retired  to  her  room  with  a  bad 
headache,  and  the  young  girl  kept  as  much  as  possible  out  of 
i\\e  way  of  the  two  ladies.  After  dinner,  which  was  unusually 
early,  and  at  which  Monsieur  de  Sainville.  being  away,  did  not 
appear,  Nathalie  retired  to  the  deep  recess  of  one  of  the  draw- 
ing-room windows,  and  sat  there  alone,  shrouded  from  observa- 
tion by  the  crimson  curtain.  The  ladies  spoke  in  a  subdued 
tone  ;  but  even  had  their  discourse  been  louder,  Nathalie  would 


NATHALIE.  1 05 

not  have  heeded  it.  She  worked  at  her  embroidery,  and  occa- 
sionally put  it  down  to  watch  the  darkening  and  stormy-looking 
sky.  When  the  sun  set  in  the  west,  a  sudden  and  lurid  light 
spread  over  the  whole  landscape,  and  threw  its  flame-like  glow 
over  the  sere  foliage  of  the  avenue,  and  the  road  and  landscape 
beyond.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  door  opened,  and 
Amanda  entered.  At  first  Nathalie  paid  no  attention  to  what 
she  said  ;  but  she  suddenly  became  attentive  ;  it  was  Madame 
Marceau  who  was  speaking. 

'•  Who  could  have  thought  our  quiet  little  river  would  ever 
act  so?"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  calm  concern.  '•  An  inundation  ! 
I  am  truly  sorry  for  those  poor  people.  Will  they  lose  all  theii 
crops  ?  But  what  has  Monsieur  de  Sainville  to  do  with  this, 
Amanda  V 

"  He  is  in  the  boat,  madame." 

"  In  the  boat !"  exclaimed  Madame  Marceau.  with  sudden 
alarm.  "Good  heavens!  what  has  he  to  do  with  the  boat? 
Surely  those  people  could  save  their  crops  without  Monsieur 
de  Sainville  risking  his  life  !" 

"  I  believe  I  may  assure  madame,  there  is  no  danger  what- 
ever. But  the  place  is  so  lonsly  that  there  is  only  one  man  at 
home ;  the  rest  were  out  far  away  in  the  fields ;  and  Monsieur 
do  Sainville,  perceiving  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  very  kindly 
oS"ered  his  aid." 

"  I  am  astonished  !"  impatiently  said  Madame  Marceau  ; 
"  surely,  my  brother  might  have  made  their  loss  good  to  those 
people  ;  a  few  stacks  of  corn  can  never  bo  worth  all  the  trouble 
he  is  taking.  Is  it  far  up  the  river?  Can  we  see  any  thing 
from  the  end  of  the  garden,  I  wonder  ?  Ma  bonne,  shall  we  go 
and  try  to  look  on  ?" 

Madame  de  Jussac  languidly  assented.  There  was  a  rus- 
tling sound  of  silken  robes ;  then  a  door  closed  softly,  and  all 
was  still.  Nathalie  emerged  from  her  retreat.  Amanda,  who 
had  lingered  behind  tlie  two  ladies,  uttered  a  faint  scream. 

"  I  beg  mademoiselle's  pardon,"  she  said,  recovering  at  once, 
"  but  I  did  not  know  mademoiselle  was  there  ;  and  when  she 
came  out,  looking  so  pale  and  frightened " 

"  What  is  it  ?  Are  you  sure  there  is  no  danger  ?  What  ia 
jMonsieur  de  Sainville  doing  in  that  boat?  How  did  all  this 
happen  ?" 

The  young  girl  spoke  in  a  brief,  almost  imperative  tone. 
Amanda  eyed  her  with  slight  surprise,  but  composedly  replied 
that  the  river  liad  suddenly  overflowed  its  banks  at  s')int  dis- 


16G  NATHALIE. 

tance  up  the  stream,  and  carried  away  the  stacks  of  coru  bo 
longing  to  the  poor  cottagers  who  lived  by  the  river-side, 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  riding  by  at  the  time  of  the  acci- 
dent; perceiving  the  necessity  of  prompt  assistance,  he  had 
immediately  dismounted  and  offered  his  aid. 

"  And  how  do  you  know  this  ?''  asked  Nathalie. 

"  I  met  a  woman  who  was  going  to  Sainville  to  fetch  assist- 
ance, and  send  up  another  boat." 

"  A  nice  messenger  !  To  lose  her  time  in  telling  you  all 
this,  instead  of  going  on  at  once,"  impatiently  exclaimed  th« 
young  girl. 

She  took  her  scarf  lying  on  a  chair,  as  she  spoke,  and  qwic'k 
ly  went  down  to  the  garden. 

She  found  Madame  Marceau  and  her  friend  standing  by 
the  water-side,  at  the  end  of  the  third  terrace.  She  drew  nnar. 
A  bend  in  the  river  allowed  the  eye  to  look  up  the  stream  ror 
a  considerable  distance.  It  was  the  opposite  bank,  which  was 
much  lower  than  that  on  which  the  chateau  stood,  that  nad 
Buffered.  The  fields,  which  Nathalie  had  seen  that  very  mum- 
ing  fresh  and  green,  were  now  covered  with  a  rolling  sheec  of 
dark  and  heavy  water,  over  which  lowered  a  leaden  and  sulien- 
looking  sky ;  in  the  distance  she  perceived  a  few  dark  upots 
rising  above  the  stream, — these  were  stacks  of  corn.  Her 
heart  ached,  as  she  remembered  how,  a  few  days  before,  she 
had  spent  a  whole  afternoon,  sitting  in  the  high  grass,  ac  the 
foot  of  a  tree,  watching  the  reapers  'midst  the  yellow  corn, 
and  listening  to  their  far  and  joyous  singing.  A  black  L<peck 
appeared  in  the  distance — it  was  the  boat  crossing  over  to  the 
submerged  bank  ;  in  the  taller  of  the  two  rowers,  Nathalie 
thought  she  could  recognize  Monsieur  de  Sainville ;  she  felt 
sure  that  it  was  he,  when  he  rose  for  a  moment,  and  the  out- 
line of  his  figure  appeared  dark  and  distinct  on  the  gray  sky. 
The  boat  approached  the  nearest  stack — then  there  was  a 
pause,  which  seemed  to  Nathalie  as  if  it  would  never  end ;  at 
last  the  boat  moved  once  more,  but  it  moved  slowly,  for  it 
was  heavily  laden ;  once,  in  the  very  middle  of  the  stream, 
it  stood  quite  still,  and  the  water  looked  so  dark  and  threaten- 
ing, as  it  ru.shed  by,  its  swollen  tide  crested  with  a  thin  white 
foam,  that  Nathalie  turned  pale,  and  felt  as  if  her  heart  ceased 
to  beat ;  but  the  rowers  were  only  pausing  for  rest — the  boat 
soon  moved  again ; — in  a  few  minutes,  it  had  safely  reached 
the  shore. 

Nathalie  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  looked  at  Madame  Mar 


NATHALIE  16? 

coau,  •woo  stood  -watching  all,  through  her  opera-glass.  She 
lowered  it,  and  said,  very  calmly : 

"  A  similar  thing  occurred  last  year,  T  bel.eve.  Those  peo- 
ple might  really  have  been  more  careful.  Armand  is  so  pru- 
dent and  courageous,  that  I  do  not  fear  for  him ;  I  have 
besides  been  given  to  understand  that  the  water  never  rises 
above  a  certain  height." 

'•  Indeed !"  said  Madame  do  Jussac,  with  a  slight  yawn, 
and  looking  as  if  she  longed  to  be  back  again  on  the  easy 
drawing-room  sofa. 

Nathalie  beheld  with  astonishment  their  well-bred  ease  and 
indifference.  Any  thing  resembling  a  deed  to  do,  an  adven- 
ture to  accomplish,  a  peril  to  brave,  even  though  she  could 
only  be  a  passive  looker-on,  sent  the  blood  to  her  heart  in  a 
more  rapid  tide,  and  made  her  whole  frame  thrill  with  excite- 
ment. The  cries  and  lamentations  of  the  women  and  chil- 
dren, which  the  wind  brought  down  distinctly  to  her  ear ;  the 
sight  of  that  frail  boat  gliding  over  the  heaving  and  swollen 
river  ;  of  the  dark  sky  above,  heavy  with  threatening  clouds  ; 
of  the  corn,  now  loosened  from  the  stacks,  and  carried  down 
by  the  rapid  stream ;  the  thought  of  the  impending  ruin  of  so 
many  families,  of  the  risk  run  to  save  their  little  property,  of 
the  courage  displayed  in  thus  seeking  danger,  and  holding  life 
so  cheap,  when  there  was  an  aim  in  view,  so  moved  and  roused 
her,  that  she  could  not  refrain  from  clapping  her  hands  when 
a  boat  from  Sainville,  with  easer  and  bending  rowers,  cheerinor 
as  they  went,  shot  past,  like  an  arrow,  on  its  way  to  the  scene 
of  destruction. 

"  How  cool  it  is  !"  said  Madame  de  Jussac,  with  a  slight 
shiver. 

"  I  think  we  shall  have  a  storm,  too,"  observed  Madame 
Marceau. 

And,  with  mutual  and  tacit  consent,  the  two  ladies  turned 
homewards.  Nathalie  never  perceived  their  departure.  She 
stood  on  the  very  brink  of  the  water,  half-bending  forward,  her 
hand  shading  her  eyes,  her  look  eagerly  following  the  boat, 
which  soon  joined  the  other. 

The  task  now  proceeded  rapidly.  The  two  boats  rivalled 
in  promptitude  and  zeal ;  they  cros.sed  and  recrosscd  the  water, 
aow  heavily  laden,  now  light  and  empty.  At  length  there 
came  a  lull ;  all  that  could  be  rescued  of  the  corn  seemed  tc 
be  stowed  in  safety ;  the  waters  over  the  flooded  fields  flowed 
in  a  dark  and  even  tide,  with  here  and  there  a  wandering  sheaf. 


!68  NATHALIE. 

tossed  by  an  eddy  of  the  stream.  One  of  the  boats  remained, 
to  save  all  that  still  floated  on  the  surface ;  the  other  slowly 
came  down  the  stream,  towards  the  spot  where  Nathalie  stood, 
watching  its  progress.  It  neared  the  bank  ;  stopped  by  a  con- 
venient landing-place;  Monsieur  de  Sainville  leaped  out; 
thanked  the  man,  who  touched  his  cap.  and  rowed  back  to  the 
spot  whence  he  had  come, 

As  her  host  evidently  did  not  see  her,  it  would  have  been 
more  proper  and  discreet  for  Nathalie  to  retire  than  to  remain. 
But  she  was  inquisitive  and  naive  in  her  curiosity,  like  a  true 
southern,  and  therefore  stayed  until  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
came  up  to  her.  He  could  not  repress  a  slight  exclamation  of 
wonder  on  seeing  her  there,  standing  by  the  water's  edge,  with 
her  light  dress  fluttering  in  the  wind,  and  her  anxious  face 
eagerly  turned  towards  him.  She  mistook  his  brief  ejaculation 
for  one  of  pain,  and,  stepping  forward,  said  quickly : 

"  Are  you  hurt,  sir  ?" 

"  Hurt  !  No,"  he  replied,  with  increased  surprise  ;  and  his 
scrutinizing  look  said,  "  What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

She  did  not  heed  it ;  but  continued  : 

••  Is  the  corn  all  safe,  sir  V 

"  Almost  all." 

"  And  was  there  no  accident !" 

"  None  whatever." 

"  But  how  tired  you  must  feel !"' 

"  No,  thank  you,"  he  quietly  replied.  '•  I  was  formerly  fond 
of  rowing,  and  have  not  lost  the  habit  yet." 

'•  But  this  was  a  very  dangerous  task,  was  it  not  ?"  con- 
tinued Nathalie. 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile.  "  But 
allow  me  to  say,  you  did  wrong  to  linger  here  on  this  dark 
evening." 

Nathalie  looked  round  ;  she  saw  that  the  two  ladies,  whom 
she  had  quite  forgotten,  were  gone.  Behind  and  around  her 
stretched  a  gloomy  and  threatening  sky,  which  seemed  more 
gloomy  still,  as  it  lay  reflected,  with  its  mass  of  clouds,  in  the 
dark  and  sullen  waters  of  the  swollen  river.  She  turned 
quietly  towards  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  and  said  simply : 

"  I  never  heard  them  going." 

"  Then  my  sister  and  Madam  de  Jussac  were  here.  Why 
did  you  remain  behind  ?  Did  you  not  see  the  storm  coming 
fast?" 

"  No  ;  I  was  looking  at  the  boats,  and  never  thought  of  the 
sky." 


NATIIAI.l!:.  169 

"  Nor  of  the  rain,"  said  he,  looking  down  at  the  large  drops 
which  had  already  stained  the  stone  steps  on  which  they  stood  ; 
for  they  had  turned  homewards  whilst  speaking  thus,  and  were 
going  up  to  the  second  terrace. 

"  Do  you  think  it  will  thunder  ?'"  asked  Nathalie,  who  pre- 
ceded him,  and  now  turned  round  with  sudden  alarm. 

Before  he  could  reply,  a  flash  of  lightning  crossed  the  sky 
behind  her ;  she  only  saw  it  by  the  lurid  light  which  passed 
over  the  grave  features  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ;  but  she- 
turned  very  pale,  and  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  when  the 
peal  of  thunder  followed  in  rapid  succession. 

"  You  are  afraid  of  thunder,"  he  said,  with  some  surprise. 

"Very  much,"  she  replied  ;  and  her  pale  lips  and  chattel - 
ing  teeth  showed  there  was  no  affectation  in  the  fear. 

He  gave  a  quick  look  around  him  ;  the  rain  was  falling 
fost :  the  sky  was  deepening  in  gloom. 

"  It  is  useless  to  think  of  reaching  the  house,"  he 
decisively  observed  ;  "will  you  have  the  goodness  to  come  this 
way  ?" 

He  went  down  the  steps  as  he  spoke  ;  the  stone  was  already 
wet  and  slippery.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  her :  she  took  it 
and  followed  him  with  silent  docility  :  but  when  she  saw  him 
entering  the  grounds,  she  could  not  help  saying, 

'•  Where  are  we  going  sir  ?" 

"  To  the  pavilion,"  he  quietly  replied. 

This  pavilion  was  only  a  little  rotunda,  or  summer-house 
of  rustic  work.  The  roof  was  thatched,  and  the  walls  were 
made  of  young  larch-trees,  with  the  bark  on.  It  stood  in  a 
lonely  spot,  surrounded  by  lai-ge  and  wide-spreading  beeches. 
Aunt  Radegonde  had  one  day  pointed  it  out  to  Nathalie  aa 
Armand's  favorite  retreat ;  "  he  comes  there  for  several  hours 
every  day  to  smoke,"  she  said  ;  "  for  he  is  kind  and  considerate, 
and  knows  how  I  hate  the  smell  of  eithe»  pipe  or  cigar  about 
the  house."  The  rain  poured  down  in  torrents  ;  this  was  no 
time  to  remonstrate  or  object :  Nathalie  did  neither,  but 
walked  quickly  with  Monsieur  de  Sainville  along  a  shady  and 
covered  path.  In  a  few  minutes  they  had  reached  the  place  ; 
he  raised  the  latch,  she  entered,  he  followed  her  in,  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him.  Scarcely  were  they  within,  when  the 
storm  burst  forth  in  all  its  fury ;  flash  followed  flash,  and  peal 
was  heard  upon  peal.  Nathalie  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
DOW  and  then  looked  up  with  a  frightened  start ;  whilst  Mon- 
eieur  de  Sainville  calmly  assured  her  that  there  was  little  oi 

8 


170  NATHALIE. 

no  clanger,  that  the  storm  was  not  so  nigh  as  she  thought,  and 
that  the  lightning  was  much  more  likely  to  be  attracted  by 
some  of  the  tall  trees,  than  by  their  little  thatched  refuge, 
The  young  girl  endeavored  to  seem  attentive,  but  she  evi- 
dently heeded  more  the  thunder  than  his  arguments  ;  and 
at  length,  he  could  not  help  asking  her  again,  how  sho 
had  remained  behind,  being  so  much  afraid  of  the  storm  as 
she  was. 

"  Because  I  never  thought  about  it,"  she  quietly  replied. 

As  the  storm  lessened,  Nathalie,  feeling  somewhat  ashamed 
of  her  timidity,  assumed  a  composed  air,  and  glanced  around 
her  with  a  look  half-shy  and  half-curious.  The  retreat  of 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  not  encumbered  with  needless  fur- 
niture, for  there  were  only  two  chairs,  a  small  buifet,  and  a 
round  table  fixed  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  all  of  rustic  work. 
At  one  end  of  the  room  stood  a  low  chimney,  framed  in  iron  ; 
over  it  were  suspended  large  pipes  of  peculiar  shape,  and  a 
gleaming  blade  half-drawn  from  its  scabbard.  Facing  the 
chimney  was  a  little  arched  window,  opening  a  gloomy  vista 
into  winding  alleys,  close  thickets,  and  groups  of  bushes  of  the 
melancholy-looking  pine-tree,  now  seen  through  a  veil  of 
white  and  heavy  rain,  and  by  the  pale  light  of  rapid  lightning 
flashes. 

Nathalie  felt  her  heart  beating  with  something  between 
pleasure  and  fear.  As  she  listened  to  the  vague  and  moaning 
sounds  of  the  storm  without,  and  looked  on  that  wild  prospect, 
half-wrapped  in  mysterious  gloom,  she  fancied  herself  a  belated 
traveller,  lost  in  some  primeval  forest  solitude.  Monsieur  de 
Sainville  fell  into  her  mood,  by  observing : 

"  Mademoiselle  Nathalie,  I  hope  you  like  my  hermitage. 
Pray  please  your  romantic  fancy  for  me  ;  imagine  me  the  sober 
hermit,  yourself  the  damsel  of  old,  reaching  this  solitary  refuge, 
after  many  perilous^vanderiugs.  You  must  be  wet  and  cold, — ■ 
will  you  not  warm  yourself,  whilst  I  produce  my  hermit's  fare?" 

She  turned  round ;  a  wood  fire  was  kindling  on  the  hearth 
with  a  crackling  sound :  he  drew  a  chair  for  her.  She  sat 
down  by  the  fire,  for  she  felt  chilly ;  in  the  mean  while  ho 
cpened  the  buifet,  and  drew  forth  a  glass,  a  flask  of  wine,  and 
a  small  wheateu  loaf,  all  of  which  he  placed  oo  the  table  before 
her. 

"  Real  hermit's  fare,"  he  said ;  "  though  I  rather  suspect 
hermits  drank  water ;  but  not  happening  to  have  a  limpid 
stream — are  not  those  the  v/ords? — running  past  my  door,  I 


NATHALIE.  171 

must  needs  be  conteut  with  wine,  and  have  nothing  better  t<s 
offer  to  an  unprotected  guest." 

He  poured  out  some  wine  as  he  spoke;  she  thanked  hiin_ 
but  did  not  touch  it ;  she  was  bending  over  the  fire,  and  looked 
cokl  and  pale  ;  he  eyed  her  uneasily,  said  she  would  certainly 
take  cold,  and  urged  her  to  throw  off  her  wet  scarf  and  dry  her 
feet.  There  was  something  of  kindly  imperativeness  in  his 
manner ;  she  complied,  with  silent  docility,  and  took  off  both 
scarf  and  slippers.  Her  host  helped  her  to  shake  the  first ; 
then,  as  she  knelt  on  the  hearth,  and  held  it  to  the  fire,  he  took 
up  one  of  her  slippers  and  also  held  it  close  to  the  heat,  so  that 
it  might  dry  more  quickly.  Nathalie  looked  at  him  in  silent 
wonder.  "  Mon  Dieii  !"  she  thought,  "  what  would  Madame 
Marceau  say,  if  she  could  see  her  brother  drying  my  slippers  ?" 

In  her  simplicity,  the  young  girl  thought  that  she  had 
wronged  Monsieur  de  Sainville — that  he  was  not  so  proud  as 
she  had  once  imagined  him  to  be.  In  reality,  he  was  much 
more  so.  Besides  the  personal  pride  she  had  justly  attributed 
to  him,  her  host  had  the  pride  of  his  race  and  birth  in  the 
highest  degree.  He  was  proud  of  his  station,  to  which  he 
never  alluded — of  his  ancestors,  whom  he  had  too  much  good 
taste  ever  to  mention — of  all,  in  short,  that  had  made  him 
Armand  de  Sainville.  But  the  pride  of  the  old  French  noblesse 
has  always  gone  hand  in  hand  with  a  chivalrous  courtesy  of 
manner  that  distinguishes  them  still.  Nathalie  need  have  felt 
no  surprise  on  seeing  her  host  thus  philosophically  attending 
on  her ;  he  belonged  to  that  race  of  gentilho?nmes  whose  most 
aristocratic  monarch,  Louis  XIV,  bared  his  head  and  bowed 
low  to  the  poorest  peasant  girl  who  ever  crossed  his  path. 

Whilst  drying  the  young  g'lrV s  pantoiijlc,  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville eyed  it  somewhat  curiously.  Nathalie,  like  a  true  French 
woman,  though  simple  to  an  excess  in  her  dress,  was  very 
fastidious  about  her  chaussure.  The  slipper  which  he  held 
was  merely  of  black  satin,  but  so  sn)all,  so  quaintly  cut,  and  so 
coquettish,  that,  though  not  made  of  glass,  it  might  have  rival- 
led the  t'iimous  jxintou fie  of  Cinderella.  He  could  not  repress 
it,  smile,  as  he  looked  at  it,  and  turned  it  round  on  his  hand, 
'.ike  some  childish  thing.  With  good-humored  reproof,  he 
asked  Nathalie  if  she  seriously  thought  such  flimsy  little  things 
could  be  of  any  possible  use?  She  looked  rather  indignant,  on 
hearing  her  favorite  slippers  thus  maligned,  and  quickly  replied, 
that,  tliough  so  slight,  they  were  very  good  and  very  strong; 
upon  which  he  shook  his  head,  and  looked  skeptical.  " 


172  NATHALIE. 

The  scarf  soon  dried,  and  so  did  the  slippers ;  Nalhalia 
quietly  put  them  on,  unseen,  as  she  thought,  by  Monsieur  de 
Sainviile,  who  stood  at  one  angle  of  the  fire-place,  looking  down 
abstractedly  on  the  burning  embers  on  the  hearth.  As  she  rose, 
her  hair,  heavy  with  rain,  fell  down  in  dishevelled  tresses ;  she 
was  impatiently  fastening  it  up  again,  damp  as  it  was,  when  be 
quietly  observed : 

"  Do  let  your  hair  drv.  Mademoiselle  Nathalie  ;  it  is  quite 
wet." 

'•  He  sees  every  thing,"  pettishly  thought  the  young  girl ; 
but  she  silently  complied,  and  once  more  knelt  down  facing 
him.  He  seemed  abstracted  ;  she  wondered  what  he  could  be 
thinking  about,  and  in  wondering  looked  ;  the  result  of  which 
was  that  he  immediately  caught  her  eye,  and  seeing  her  slightly 
confused,  asked  which  of  the  pipes  had  attracted  her  attention. 
"  This  is  a  very  peculiar  looking  one,"  evasively  replied 
Nathalie,  too  frank  to  like  or  freely  accept  an  excuse. 

"  This  is  not  a  pipe,"  said  he,  taking  it  down  as  he  spoke, 
"  but  a  pistol." 

She  started  up  in  alarm  ;  he  smiled  and  assured  her  there 
was  no  danger  ;  but  Nathalie  looked  skeptical  and  unea.sy  ;  she 
had  a  vague  suspicion  that  pistols  were  always  loaded,  and 
always  on  the  point  of  going  off.  Ashamed  of  the  fear  she 
had  betrayed,  she  knelt  once  more,  but  could  not  help  thinking 
that  Monsieur  de  Sainville  must  be  a  strange  suspicious  man, 
to  have  those  deadly  weapons  around  him  even  in  that  quiet 
summer-house. 

"  It  is  a  travelling  habit  I  have  taken,"  he  calmly  said  ;  "  I 
assure  you  it  gives  a  peculiar  sense  of  security  and  indepen- 
dence. *^With  just  that  little  instrument  in  my  hand" — he 
bandied  it  as  he  spoke — "  though  not  half  so  formidable  look- 
ing as  3'onder  pipe,  it  will  go  hard  indeed  if  I  do  not  remain 
my  own  master.  The  law  is  a  good  thing ;  the  police  is  useful, 
watchful  servants  are  beyond  praise,  but  that  which  enables  a 
man  to  do  without  them  all  is  better  far." 

He  replaced  the  pistol  as  he  spoke ;  then  perceiving  Na- 
thalie's glass  still  full,  he  urged  her  to  take  some  of  the  wine 
he  had  poured  out  for  her. 

"  You  will  like  it,"  he  quietly  observed. 
She  raised  the  glass  to  her  "lips,  then  quickly  laid  it  down 
snd  looked  at  her  host ;  he  was  smiling,  and  seemed  to  enjoy 
tier  surprise. 

'•  But  this  is  a  Provenqal  wine,"  she  said  with  some  emotion ; 


NATHALIE.  173 

"  the  ciotat  muscat,  which  I  never  tasted  since  I  came  to  Nor- 
mandy." 

"  Yes,  it  is  the  ciotat;  I  had  some  at  Aries,  and  liked  it  so 
well  that  I  ordered  a  certain  quantity  of  it  when  I  came  here.'" 

"  Aries  !  You  have  been  at  Aries  ?"  exclaimed  the  young 
girl,  eagerly  looking  at  him,  and  eyeing  hira  from  head  to  foot, 
as  if  the  mere  fact  of  having  been  at  Aries  must  have  produced 
some  change  in  his  person. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  have ;  I  was  coming  from  Bcaucaire." 

"  Beaucaire  !"  she  interrupted.  "  You  have  been  at  Bcau- 
caire, also  ?     Did  you  see  the  great  fair?" 

"  I  went  there  for  that  purpose,  four  years  ago.'' 

"  Mori  Dieu  !  that  was  the  very  time  I  went  with  my  poor 
aunt      How  strange  we  did  not  meet?" 

'•  Yes,"  he  said,  very  seriously ;  "  it  is  peculiar." 

"  Was  it  not  a  fine  fair  ?  How  gay  the  narrow  streets 
looked  with  the  signs  of  blue,  red,  and  yellow  cloth  crossing 
from  one  side  to  the  other,  and  the  white  linen  awning  over 
all  !  And  then  the  rich  goods  displayed  at  every  door !  Car- 
pets, costly  arms,  rich  silks,  and  jewels  in  heaps, — yes,  every 
thing  was  there.  My  auiit  told  me  some  of  the  merchants  had 
travelled  hundreds  of  miles  to  exhibit  and  sell  their  goods.  I 
believe  tliey  were  of  every  nation  under  the  sun.  I  saw  Italians, 
Spaniards,  and  Germans,  too,  amongst  the  Europeans  ;  but  I 
looked  most  at  the  Turks,  who  seemed  so  solemn  ;  the  Arme- 
nians, who  had  such  wily  faces  ;  and  the  Greeks,  who  were  so 
handsome  !  Did  you  see  them  ?  My  aunt  said  it  was  the  finest 
fair  that  had  ever  been  at  Beaucaire  ;  and  though  we  only  came 
for  a  few  days,  we  remained  the  whole  of  the  first  week." 

"  So  did  I,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 

'•  Then  I  am  quite  sure  we  must  have  met,"  exclaimed  Na- 
thalie, looking  delighted ;  "  of  course,  we  did  not  know  one 
another, — I  was  much  shorter  than  I  am  now, — but  still  we 
met  at  that  fair  of  Beaucaire." 

She  spoke  as  if  they  were  old  acquaintances,  and,  indeed, 
nothing  now  could  have  convinced  her  that  they  were  not  so. 
She  had  spent  a  week  at  Beaucaire,  four  years  ago,  so  had  ho  ; 
— the  town  was  small,  her  walks  had  been  confined  to  the  prin- 
cipal streets,  so  must  his  have  been ; — it  was  evident  they  had 
met, — and  if  they  had  met,  how  could  they  be  strangers  ? 
From  that  hour  the  date  of  their  acquaintanceship  retrograded 
four  years.  He  adopted  the  same  logical  reasoning,  for  he  said 
with  a  smile, — 


1 74  NATHALIE. 

'■  We  certainly  did  meet ;  indeed,  I  seem  to  recollect  no- 
ticing a  young  girl,  of  fourteen  or  so,  on  the  boat  that  took  me 
to  Aries  ;  and  she  was  decidedly  like  you,"  he  added,  looking 
at  her  fixedl3^ 

'•  Was  she  with  an  old  lady?"  demurely  asked  Nathalie, 

"  Precisely, — with  an  old  lady." 

"  And  had  she  white  muslin  on  ?" 

"  I  really  think  she  had." 

'•  How  strange  !"  said  Nathalie,  seeming  much  amused. 

'•  I  see  nothing  strange  in  it,"  he  replied,  quite  gravely ; 
'•  we  were  at  the  fair  together,  and  went  home  by  the  boat, — it 
was  perfectly  natural." 

"  Yes,  it  would  be,  if  it  did  not  so  happen  that  I  never  went 
home  by  the  boat  at  all ;"  replied  Nathalie,  looking  very  merry 
and  mischievous. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  slightly  disconcerted.  He 
was  a  grave  man,  unacquainted  with  girls ;  he  had  certainly 
never  expected  that  any  young  girl  would  carry  her  audacity 
so  far  as  to  make  game  of  him  to  his  very  face.  He  frowned 
slightly,  and  looked  down  at  her  with  a  displeased  mien, — but 
though  her  color  rose  a  little,  her  look  still  fearlessly  met'  his. 
He  could  not  help  smiling,  and  saying  in  a  good-humored  tone, 
that  he  must  have  been  deceived  by  a  casual  likeness. 

"  How  did  you  like  Beaucaire,  sir?"  Nathalie  hastened  to 
ask ;  for  she  was  not  quite  sure  she  had  not  gone  too  far,  and 
wished  to  change  the  subject. 

'•  Not  n&lf  so  well  as  Aries." 

"  Then  you  liked  Aries?"  she  exclaimed,  looking  at  him  a 
little  wistfully,  whilst  something  tremulous  was  in  her  tone  as 
she  uttered  the  name  of  her  native  and  much-loved  city. 

"  Who  would  not  like  that  venerable  old  place,  with  its 
mighty  ruins,  some  of  them  so  fresh  that  it  seems  as  if  the 
Romans  had  left  them  but  yesterday  !  With  its  women,  whose 
strange  beauty  is  like  to  none  other ;  for  they  have  a  charm 
between  eastern  fire  and  classic  grace,  and  when  they  seem 
most  calm,  there  is  still  something  of  southern  passion  in  their 
look  and  in  their  mien." 

Oh  !  subtle  and  exquisite  indeed  is  the  flattery  of  the  land 
and  race  we  love  !  Nathalie  felt  its  power  in  the  deepest  re- 
cesses of  her  heart.  Even  as  Monsieur  de  Sainville  spoke,  a 
bright  vision  slowly  rose  before  her  on  the  dark  wall  of  the 
little  hermitage :  she  beheld  the  broad  llhone  gliding  swiftly 
at   the  foot  of  a  dark  and  ancient  city,  crowned  with  Roman 


NATHALIE.  1 75 

ruins,  and  rising  in  the  warm  sunlight  against  the  deep  blue 
southern  sky.  See  beheld  it  and  looked  until  her  eyes  became 
dimmed  with  tears.  Then  the  vision  faded  away  :  she  saw 
once  more  the  dark  night  without ;  within,  the  fire-lit  hermit- 
age, and  Monsieur  de  Sainville  standing  before  her  and  look- 
ing down  at  her  very  kindly. 

"  I  have  grieved  you,"  he  said. 

"  Oh  !  no,  sir.  You  have  made  me  feel  so  happy  !  Not 
since  I  left  Aries  have  I  met  any  one  who  had  seen  it,  or  cared 
to  hear  about  it." 

"  Poor  child  !"  he  compassionately  said  ;  "  the  change  must 
have  been  great  indeed,  from  Provence  lo  Normandy." 

"  The  home  sickness  was  on  me  for  a  whole  3^ear.  I  could 
i.ot  sleep,  and  scarcely  eat.  The  doctor  said  I  must  go  back 
to  the  south,  or  die  ;  but  he  was  mistaken,  for,  with  the  bless- 
ing of  Grod,  I  got  better." 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  not  given  to  questioning  ;  but 
he  now  seemed  in  the  interrogative  mood,  for  he  made  many 
inquiries  concerning  the  life  Nathalie  led  at  Mademoiselle 
Dantin's.  Her  heart  was  opened,  since  she  felt  they  had  met 
at  the  fair  of  Beaucaire,  and  she  answered  freel}''.  A  few  gra- 
phic, but  not  resentful,  touches  sketched  Mademoiselle  Dan- 
tin  ;  the  little  Chevalier  was  not  forgotten.  She  also  spoke  of 
her  favorite  pupils  ;  of  the- grief  it  was  to  part  from  them  ;  of 
her  lonely  walks  in  the  garden ;  of  the  dreaming  hours  spent 
in  her  solitary  room ;  and  in  all  she  said,  there  was  girlish 
piquancy,  blending  with  a  simple  and  homely  grace.  He  listen- 
ed to  her,  with  an  occasional  smile,  that  showed  he  always  re- 
mained attentive,  and  yet  with  a  sort  of  abstraction  in  his 
manner  that  rendered  it  very  difficult  to  say  how  far  he  really 
cared  for  the  ready  replies  his  questions  found, — how  much  he 
was  guided  by  politeness,  and  how  much  by  interest. 

"  Your  life  must  have  been  dull  at  that  school,"  he  said,  at 
length.  "  Did  you  never  go  to  parties  of  pleasure, — to  balls, 
or  any  thing  of  the  kind  ?" 

"  I  went  to  five  balls,"  she  replied,  with  the  prompt  and  ac- 
curate memory  of  one  whose  pleasures  had  been  few  and  far 
between. 

"  Do  you  care  about  dancing  ?" 

Slie  eyed  him  wonderingly.  Did  she  care  about  it !  Well 
tliose  serious  gentlemen,  who  cared  about  nothing  themselves 
did  ask  strange  questions. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  she  liked  it  very  much." 


176  NATHALIE. 

'•  Better  than  that  Provencal  ciotat  ?"  said  he,  looking  al 
.  her  glass. 

Nathalie  drank  the  wine  ;  but  when  she  laid  down  her 
empty  glass  on  the  table,  she  remembered  that  Monsieur  de 
Sainville  had  tasted  nothing.  The  buffet  was  open  ;  her  eye 
ran  hastily  over  it;  there  was  no  second  glass,  for  she  was  the 
first  guest  he  had  received  in  his  hermitage,  and  to  whom  he 
had  dispensed  hospitality. 

••  Oh  !  sir,"  she  said,  rather  pained,  "you  needed  that  wine, 
after  your  fatigue,  much  more  than  I  did.  You  look  pale  and 
tired ;  I  am  sure  you  needed  it." 

"  lie  smiled  at  her  earnest  tone  ;  said  that  he  would  bor- 
row her  glass ;  and  poured  himself  out  some  wine.  He  then 
reclined  back  in  his  chair,  and  drank  slowly,  looking  at  her  all 
the  time. 

"  There  arc  no  wines  like  the  southern  wines,"  he  said, 
pausing  once  ;  '-so  light  and  genial." 

She  shook  her  head  in  a  shrewd  way,  that  implied  "  I  be- 
lieve so;"  and  said  aloud,  "Oh!  no;  there  arc  none  like 
them." 

"  And  I  think,"  he  resumed,  at  the  next  pause,  "  that  this 
Provencal  ciotat  surpasses  every  other  southern  vintage." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  V  exclaimed  Nathalie,  looking 
delighted  ;  "  or  does  it  only  amuse  you  to  see  how  foolish  I 
can  be  about  my  poor  Provence  ?"  she  added,  a  little  doubt- 
fully. 

*•  Mademoiselle  Nathalie,"  said  he,  quickly,  "  you  are  un- 
charitable. I  give  you  my  word  that  I  think  every  thing 
from  Provence  both  excellent  and  delightful." 

He  half-bent  forward  as  he  spoke,  and  there  was  such  un- 
usual warmth  in  his  look  and  tone,  that  Nathalie  blushed 
deeply,  not  knowing  whether  he  did  not  mean  a  compliment. 
On  reflection,  she  thought  this  very  unlikely,  and  said,  a  little 
archly : 

"  The  ciotat,  especially." 

"  Yes,  of  course,  the  ciotat,"  he  replied,  laying  down  hia 
smpty  glass,  and  looking  rather  abstracted. 

"  Then  why  not  take  more?"  she  urged  ;  "you  must  bo  so 
iiitigued  !" 

"  You  seem  quite  confident  about  that." 

"  I  know  it  was  a  fatiguing  and  dangerous  task." 

"  Upon  my  word,  there  was  no  danger." 

"What,  none  at  all?"  said  Nathalie,  looking  disappointed. 


NATHALIE  17? 

"  To  please  you,  I  will  admit  there  was  a  little.     You  evi 
dently  like  the  perilous." 

"  I  like  every  thing  resembling  an  adventure,"  she  can- 
didly replied  ;  "  every  thing  unlike  the  routine  of  dull,  everj-- 
day  life.  I  liked  the  distant  danger  on  which  I  looked  with  a 
beating  heart ;  the  storm  itself  I  liked,  even  when  I  feared  it 
most.  I  like  being  here  to-night,  in  this  spot,  looking  so  wild 
and  solitary  that  one  might  fancy  it  lying  miles  away  from  a 
human  dwelling.  I  like  to  sit  here  and  watch  those  gloomy 
beeches,  shedding  their  solemn  twilight  around, — to  wonder, 
and  half-shudder,  at  the  mysterious  depths  beyond  ;  and  when 
I  am  most  afraid,  to  contrast  the  darkness  of  the  night  without, 
with  the  warmth  and  cheerful  light  within." 

She  half-bent  over  the  fire  as  she  spoke  thus,  with  evident 
enjoyment  of  her  position.  The  wood  burned  brightly  on  the 
hearth ;  the  night  looked  dark  beyond,  but  the  flame  lit  every 
thing  around  with  its  flickering  yet  vivid  glow.  A  warm  ray 
illumed  the  grave  features  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  as  he  sat 
on  one  side  of  the  fire-place,  his  elbow  resting  on  the  low 
mantel-shelf,  and  fell  on  the  animated  face  and  bending  pro- 
file of  the  young  girl  who  sat  opposite  to  him.  The  thunder 
and  lightning  had  long  ceased ;  but  the  rain  still  fell  heavily, 
and  the  wind  moaned  away,  with  a  low  and  lamentable  sound, 
along  the  lonely  avenues.     There  was  a  brief  silence. 

'•  Yes,  this  is  indeed  a  solitary  place,"  said  Nathalie,  speak- 
ing almost  under  her  breath. 

"  Do  you  like  solitude  V  asked  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 

"  I  should  not  like  to  be  alone  here,"  was  the  frank  reply. 

"  Indeed  solitude  is  too  quiet  and  silent  a  lady  for  you,  my 
child,"  said  he,  kindly. 

"  Mo)i  enfant"  though  by  no  means  implying  the  same  de- 
gree of  familiarity  as  the  English  expression  of  "  my  child,"  is 
still  significant  of  an  afi'ectionate  freedom  Nathalie  had  not 
expected  from  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ;  but  their  acquaintance 
had  made  great  progress  that  evening.  She  could  not  help 
thinking  so,  and  looking  at  him  a  little  thoughtfully.  He  did 
not  notice  it ;  for  he  had  risen,  and  stood  near  the  window, 
listening  to  the  rain  and  wind  without. 

"  It  is  scarcely  raining  now,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "  I 
think,  Mademoiselle  Nathalie,  it  Avill  be  best  for  me  to  go 
alone  to  the  chateau,  and  send  a  servant  to  you,  with  a  cloak, 
and  any  thing  else  you  may  need." 

Nathalie  did  not  object,  but  she  saw  Monsieur  dc  Sainville 


178  NATHALIE. 

prepare  to  leave  her  with  any  thing  but  a  sense  of  security. 
This  lonely  spot,  with  its  wild  look-out,  and  the  deepening 
gloom  of  night  gathering  around  it,  frightened  her, — she  knew 
not  why.  Still  she  did  not  like  to  remonstrate  ;  but  scarcely 
had  the  door  closed  upon  him,  than  fear  overcame  shame ;  she 
left  her  seat,  ran  quickly  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  said, 
eagerly : 

"  I  would  much  sooner  not  wait,  sir  ; — I  would  much  rather 
go  with  you." 

"  I  warn  you,"  said  he,  coming  back,  "  that  it  will  be  per- 
haps more  of  an  adventure  than  even  you  will  like  ;  I  have 
already  perceived  several  newly-born  islands  and  various  un- 
known seas." 

"  Nathalie  bent  forward,  and  cautiously  put  out  her  grace- 
ful head,  for  the  rain  had  not  quite  ceased.  The  prospect  was 
by  no  means  cheering.  Evening  had  set  in  ;  over  a  wide  lawn, 
covered  with  pools  of  water,  extended  a  gray  and  gloomy  sky, 
in  which  the  pale  moon  now  shone  with  a  dim  and  troubled 
light ;  between  earth  and  heaven  floated  a  thin  white  mist, 
which  made  the  chateau,  already  at  a  sufficient  distance,  seem 
more  distant  still.  Nathalie  uttered  an  exclamation  of  dismay, 
He  urged  her  not  to  make  the  attempt.  She  put  one  foot  for- 
ward, took  a  step,  and  then  hesitated.  He  thought  she  agreed 
to  stay,  and  walked  on  ;  but  she  hastily  descended  the  wooden 
steps,  and  quickly  stood  by  his  side. 

"  I  cannot  stay  there  alone,"  she  said. 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of?" 

"  Of  the  wind,  of  the  rain, — of  everything." 

He  smiled,  but  forbore  to  remonstrate.  He  helped  her  to 
throw  her  scarf  over  her  head,  gave  a  dubious  glance,  which  she 
detected,  at  the  satin  slippers,  and  offered  her  his  arm.  The 
wind  was  keen,  and  drove  the  rain  full  in  Nathalie's  face ;  but 
she  enjoyed  the  struggle,  laughed,  and  gayly  shook  away  the 
glittering  drops  from  her  cheek,  to  which  the  breeze  gave 
heightened  bloom.  She  looked  the  very  realization  of  that 
delightful  Louisa,  from  whose  cheek  the  poet  longed  to  kiss 
away  the  mountain  rains.  They  had  not  walked  far,  when  a 
sudden  pause  occurred.  She  looked  disconcerted,  and  stopped ; 
he  pretended  not  to  see  that  her  slipper  had  come  oflF.  They 
had  not  gone  on  five  steps  further,  when  the  other  slipper 
stuck  fast  in  the  damp  earth.  This  time  he  smiled.  Nathalie 
looked  extremely  provoked,  and  pettishly  asked  "if  it  was  the 
clipper's   fault   if  the   earth   would  be  damp?"  to  which  ha 


NATHALIE.  179 

gravely  replied,  "certainly  not."  But  when  this  agreeable 
incident  had  occurred  a  certain  number  of  times,  Nathalie  lost 
patience,  declared  the  slippers  might  remain  behind  if  they 
iiked,"  and  that  she  could  very  well  walk  home  without  them. 

"  No,  my  dear  child,"  said  he,  with  an  authoritative  kind- 
ness, '•  you  will  not  do  this ;  you  will  go  back  to  the  little 
hermitage,  warm  yourself  once  more,  and  wait  until  I  send  you 
all  you  need." 

i-  Very  well,  sir,"  replied  Nathalie,  with  child-like  dccility, 
for  she  was  touched  at  the  good-humored  and  indulgent  patience 
with  which  he  had  borne  all  her  little  caprices. 

On  hearing  her  ready  a^ssent,  he  praised  her  for  being  so 
good  and  docile ;  promised  to  send  soon,  and  proceeded  on  his 
way,  whilst  she  returned  alone  to  the  little  hermitage. 


CHAPTEK  XIII. 


Nathalie  pushed  the  door  open  a  little,  hesitatingly.  There 
i(  a  nameless  sort  of  fear  no  argument  can  allay.  But  the  place 
was  as  they  had  left  it, — quiet  and  silent.  The  fire,  however, 
had  burned  rather  low  ;  she  closed  the  door,  came  forward,  and 
stooped  to  arrange  it.  A  slight  sound  made  her  raise  her  look 
with  a  start ;  the  door  opened  slowly  ;  a  shadow  darkened  the 
floor.  In  the  indistinct  light,  Nathalie  perceived  a  man's  form 
standing  on  the  threshold ;  she  concluded  it  was  Monsieur  de 
Sainville,  who  had  returned  for  some  unknown  reason. 

"What  has  happened,  sir?"  she  asked,  rising  quickly;  but 
she  imniediately  drew  back,  with  a  faint  scream,  for,  by  the 
flickering  firelight,  she  had  perceived  that  it  was  not  Monsieur 
de  Sainville,  but  his  nephew. 

There  was  something  in  the  sudden  way  in  which  Charles 
Marceau  chose  to  appear  before  the  lady  of  his  thoughts,  that 
always  jarred  disagreeably  on  her  nerves,  like  an  unexpected 
shock.  She  now  stood,  mute  and  pale,  before  hira,  with  her 
hand  laid  on  the  table :  she  needed  that  support.  He  drew 
near  the  fire-place,  and  stooped  to  look  at  her. 

•'  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of 
great  surprise,  "  I  could  scarcely  have  hoped  for  this." 

Nathalie   looked,  and   felt   incredulous.     It   was  strange. 


.,       ^..^  ^^^^  . .W,.......,....,.  ^V  ,,....  ^V..»^j,. 


180  NATllALIi;. 

indeed,  be  should  kuow  of  bei-  presence  there  ;  yet  she  did  net 
think  he  had  come  in  by  chance.  She  eyed  him  with  mistrust; 
he  stood  on  the  spot  lately  occupied  by  bis  uncle ;  his  arm 
rested  on  the  mantel-shelf,  and  supported  his  head,  which  wag 
partly  bowed.  She  could  not  see  his  features  ;  but  she  saw  that 
bis  wet  hair  clung  to  his  pale  cheeks  ;  his  clothes  looked  heavy 
with  rain.  There  was  a  brief  silence  ;  but  ere  long  his  low 
and  melancholy  voice  addressed  her: 

"  IJelieve  me,  I  needed  not  this  freezing  silence  to  under- 
stand that  your  resentment  was  unabated.  Oh  !  it  is  strange, 
it  is  bitter,  that  a  deep  and  devoted  love  should  win  naught 
save  such  unmitigated  aversion  !" 

He  looked  up,  as  he  spoke  thus,  in  a  moved  tone.  Nathalie 
remained  cold  and  silent.  She  was  romantic  enough  in  her 
way  ;  yet  such  language  found  with  her  no  sympathy.  This  is 
no  uncommon  case  ;  the  key  with  which  we  win,  or  seek  to  win. 
a  way  to  the  hearts  of  others,  is  not  always  that  which  can 
unlock  our  own  heart.  On  seeing  her  standing  before  him. 
cold  and  mute,  like  a  marble  statue,  the  young  man  could  not 
help  exclaiming,  almost  angrily: 

"What  have  I  done?  To  love  you  is  no  crime  !  What 
have  I  done  to  be  thus  treated?" 

"  May  I  inquire  what  you  mean  by  '  thus  treated  ?'  "  she 
dryly  asked. 

"  You  will  not  even  read  a  letter,  breathing  only  the  most 
respectful  tenderness.     What  could  you  fear  from  it?" 

"  Nothing,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"  Then  why  so  cruel  as  to  return  it  unread  ?" 

'•lor  two  reasons  :  the  first  was,  that  the  manner  in  which 
you  sent  that  letter  displeased  me  ;  the  second  reason  was,  that 
I  held  myself  tacitly  bound  to  Madame  Marceau  to  hold  no 
communication  whatsoever  with  you." 

She  spoke  with  unruffled  calmness.  He  remained  moodily 
silent.     She  quietly  resumed  : 

"  For  the  same  reason,  I  shall  feel  deeply  indebted  to  you, 
if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  abridge  this  interview.  I  need 
Burely  not  say  how  painful  it  will  be  to  me  if  you  remain  hero 
until  the  arrival  of  the  servant,  whom  I  expect  every  moment." 

"  Say  rather  that  every  moment  of  my  presence  here  is 
hateful  to  you,"  he  bitterly  replied,  for  her  fearless  composure 
verging  on  indifference  offended  him  deeply. 

'•  It  is  at  least  unbecoming  here,  sir,"  she  impatiently  au- 
Bwered,  annoyed  at  his  repeated  assertions  of  her  supposed 
hr.tred. 


XAniALIE.  1H1 

"  And  why  unbecoming  ?''  be  urged  in  tbo  same  bittei 
tone;  "you  were  here  alone  with  my  uncle  half  an  hour  oi 
more ;  why  should  it  be  so  very  unbecoming  if  I  remain  a  few 
minutes  with  you  ?" 

"  You  knew  he  was  here  ?"  exclaimed  Nathalie  drawing 
back  with  renewed  mistrust. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  it,  he  replied,  raising  his  look  until  it  met  hera 
and  remained  fastened  on  her  face,  fixed  and  ardent;  "yes,  I 
knew  it.  I  stood  outside  that  window  in  the  rain,  looking  at 
you :  there  is  not  a  glance,  a  smile,  a  motion  of  yours  during 
the  last  half-hour  which  I  have  not  seen  and  do  not  remember. 
I  strained  my  ear  to  catch  the  sound  of  your  voice,  when  I  saw 
your  lips  moving,  but  the  wind  was  loud  and  only  once  could 
I  hear  ;  it  was  when  you  laughed.  But  of  course  it  was  quite 
natural  that  I  should  stand  outside,  thanking  the  keen  night 
air  for  cooling  the  fever  of  my  blood ;  quite  natural  that  he 
who  has  no  such  fever  to  cool,  I  suppose,  should  be  in  here  with 
you.  He. stood  where  I  am  standing  now;  you  knelt  there 
drying  your  hair  before  the  fire  ;  he  could  have  touched  it  by 
just  stretching  out  his  hand  so,  yet  you  did  not  think  it  need- 
ful to  be  so  very  far  away  from  him,  or  to  stand,  as  you  do  now. 
behind  that  table,  with  your  look  on  the  door.  He  spoke 
coldly  enough,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  yet  you  smiled,  laughed,  and 
looked  joyous.  You  drank  out  of  that  glass  ;  when  you  had 
done  he  drank  out  of  it  too,  and  perhaps  his  lips  met  the  very 
place  yours  had  touched.  He  went  out  alone,  but  you  followed 
him  of  your  own  accord  ;  he  offered  you  his  arm,  you  took  it 
unhesitatingly  ;  the  ground  was  wet  in  many  places  ;  he  helped 
you  over,  and  you  did  not  shrink  from  him.  I  have  never  so 
much-  as  asked  to  touch  the  hem  of  your  robe ;  and  you  turn 
from  mo  with  aversion.  Why  is  this  ?  why  must  he  who  cares 
not  for  them,  enjoy  freedoms,  innocent  I  grant,  but  denied  me, 
to  whom  they  would  he  delightful  ?" 

He  spoke  with  rapid  and  jealous  passion.  A  burning  blush 
of  anger  and  shame  settled  on  Nathalie's  cheek ;  it  deepened 
with  every  word  he  uttered,  with  every  image  he  called  up. 

'•  Sir  !"  said  she  in  angry  justification,  "  I  am  free  with 
Monsieur  de  Sainville,  because  he  is  my  host,  and,  I  believe, 
my  friend,  and  also  because,  as  you  say,  he  cares  not  for  those 
frecd^oms." 

'•  And  how  do  you  know  he  cares  not  for  them?"  exclaimed 
Charles  Marceau,  with  all  the  unreasonableness  nnd  7nalad resse 
of  genuine  jealousy  ;  "  do  you  think  he  will  let  you  sec  it  if  he 


!  82  NATHALIE. 

does  ?  Aro  you  not  beautiful  for  him  as  well  as  for  any  other 
man  ?  or  is  there  a  spell  on  his  eyes  that  he  should  not 
see  it?" 

"  And  if  it  were  so,  sir,  and  if  he  did  see  it,"  exclaimed 
Nathalie,  speakino;  with  unrepressed  indignation,  "  I  should 
still  be  to  him  all  that  you  accurately  watched  and  saw  this 
evening." 

"And  why  so?"  gloomily  asked  Charles,  "why  so?" 

"  Because  I  have  faith,  unbounded  faith  in  Monsieur  do 
Sainville's  honor."  Her  eye  sparkled  as  she  spoke,  her  cheeks 
were  flushed,  her  lips  trembled,  and  she  pressed  her  cla?ped 
hands  to  her  bosom.     The  young  man  turned  very  pale. 

"  Am  I  to  understand,"  he  asked  in  a  low  tone,  that  you 
mean  to  cast  a  doubt  on  my  honor  ?" 

"  She  turned  quickly  towards  him  and  replied  with  some 
emotion,  "no,  sir;  heaven  forbid  !" 

There  was  something  so  truthful  and  confidinsr  in  her  face 
at  that  moment,  that  he  did  not  see  it  was  only  the.  lingering 
trace  of  her  previous  emotion,  and  he  conceived  a  sudden  hope. 

"  Then,  since  you  do  not  mistrust  me,"  he  eagerly  said ; 
"  since  you  are  good  enough  to  have  some  confidence  in  me,  hear 
me,  I  beseech  you." 

Nathalie  shook  her  head  with  decisive  denial. 

'•  I  have  heard  enough,"  she  said  ;  "  you  have  spoken  to  me 
as  none  ever  spoke  to  me  before ;  may  I  never  hear  such  lan- 
guage again.  Sir.it  is  not  enough  to  love ;  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  loving  delicately ;  there  is  such  a  thing  as  not  utter- 
ing language,  accusations,  and  allusions  that  will  make  a  woman 
blush  with  unmerited  shame.  I  knowj"  she  added,  noticing  his 
darkening  brow,  "  that  this  frankness  offends  you  ;  yet  1  can 
retract  nothing  of  what  you  have  provoked  me  to  say.  You  are 
proud — resent  it ;  and  let  resentment,  if  you  will,  take  the  place 
of  anv  other  feeling — I  .shall  not  complain." 

He  looked  at  her  with  anger,  in  which  blended  irrepressible 
tenderness. 

"  You  need  not  urge  me  to  hate  you,"  he  passionately  ex- 
claimed ;  '•  I  know  very  well  I  ought,  and  I  know  I  shall  do  so, 
some  day ;  but  I  know  also,  that  now,  do  what  I  will,  I  cannot. 
Haughty  girl!  Do  you  know  this?  do  you  know  you  never 
look  half  so  bewitching  as  when  you  wear  that  proud  look  and 
scornfal  smile?  Do  you  know  that  your  very  pride  wins,  when 
seeming  most  to  repel ;  that  it  has  a  i^harm  which  only  draws 
tao  more  irresistibly  to  your  feet?" 


NATHALIE.  183 

But  Nathalie  was  not  touched.  In  vain  he  pleaded  that 
his  indiscreet  language  was  only  the  result  of  passion  and  of  a 
momentary  and  absurd  jealousy ;  she  could  not  forgi-^e  him 
the  watching  at  the  window  ;  least  of  all  could  she  forgive  his 
construction  on  what  he  had  seen.  He  tried  to  explain,  and 
made  matters  worse ;  then  he  fell  back  on  the  old  theme  of  his 
love,  and  poured  forth  protestation  on  protestation  with  rapid 
and  rising  eloquence :  she  heard  him  with  impatience  at  first, 
and  then  with  weariness  and  enJiui  on  her  face. 

"  You  are  not  from  the  south,  for  you  have  a  hea/t  of  ice," 
he  at  length  exclaimed,  with  irrepressible  anger  ;  "  I  am  made 
to  talk  of  love  to  you.     Love  !  you  cannot  love." 

A  rapid  blush  suffused  Nathalie's  face. 

'•  You  know  nothing  about  it,"   she  replied  hastily. 

She  stood  before  him,  her  arms  folded  on  her  bossom,  her 
face  turned  towards  him  with  a  haughty  smile  ;  and  as  she 
thus  unhesitatingly  vindicated  herself  from  the  reproach  of 
unwomanly  heartlessness  cast  upon  her,  there  was  in  her  look, 
in  her  smile,  and  in  her  bearing,  a  provoking  sort  of  grace,  not 
free  perhaps  from  unconscious  coquetry,  but  which  was  cer- 
tainly feminine,  and.  though  she  knew  it  not,  irresistibly  allur- 
ing. 

He  had  been  pacing  the  room  up  and  down ;  he  stopped 
short  to  look  at  her ;  emotion  succeeded  anger  on  his  features: 
he  felt  the  spell ;  approached  her,  and  said  in  a  low  submissive 
tone: 

'■  Be  merciful,  then  !  Teach  me  how  I  can  make  you  love 
me." 

She  had  not  expected  he  would  take  her  words  as  a  sort  of 
advance ;  his  doing  so  offended  her.  She  said  in  a  distant 
tone: 

"  As  I  perceive,  sir.  you  have  not  the  generosity  to  desist 
and  leave  me,  do  not  wonder  if  I  leave  you." 

But  even  as  she  spoke,  a  sudden  change  came  over  the  sa- 
turnine features  of  her  exacting  lover:  she  saw  him  start, 
change  color,  and  step  back  hastily,  with  his  look  fastened  on 
the  door  behind  her.  She  turned  quickly  round,  and  saw,  not 
the  expected  servant,  but  the  pale  and  angry  face  of  Monsieur 
de  Sainville,  as  he  stood  on  the  threshold,  holding  the  half-open 
door  in  his  hand. 

He  closed  it ;  came  forward  and  sat  down  by  the  fireside, 
<rithout  once  looking  at  Nathalie,  or  removing  his  menacing 
glance  from  Charles  Marceau.     But  the  calmness  of  his  voice. 


184  NATHALIE. 

tyhen  he  spoke,  contrasted   strikingly  with   the   stem  moaniug 
of  his  face. 

"  Charles,"  said  lie,  quietly,  ••  what  has  brought  you  here  ? 
I  thought  you  were  in  Paris." 

"  I  have  been  ill,  sir,"  replied  the  young  man,  with  a  con- 
fusion that  soon  wore  oflF. 

His  uncle  eyed  him  from  head  to  foot  with  a  very  cxpres 
eive  gaze. 

'•  1  am  much  better  now,"  continued  his  nephew  ;  "but  the 
doctor  advised  change  of  air — my  native  air,  and  so  I  came '' 

"  You  were  born  and  bred  at  Havre,"  coldly  interrupted 
his  uncle,  "and  Havre  is  some  ten  leagues  off;  I  suppose  you 
were  on  your  way  there,  and  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of 
seeing  your  mother  en  passant.  I  need  not  tell  you  how  much 
she  will  value  this  attention,  and  be  pained  at  your  ill-health  " 

"  Sir,"  said  the  young  man,  coloring,  "  allow  me  to  say  you 
have  no  right  to  express  these  doubts.  This  letter,  which  I 
had  written  beforehand,  for  your  persual,  and  which  contains 
another  letter,  addressed  to  me  by  my  medical  attendant,  ought 
not  to  be  needed  to  convince  you  of  the  truth  of  my  asser- 
tions." 

He  produced  a  sealed  letter,  and  handed  it  to  his  uncle  as 
he  spoke.  Nathalie  could  not  help  trying  to  divine  the  expres- 
sion of  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  features,  as  he  perused  his 
nephew's  epistle  by  the  fire-light ;  that  expression  was  easy  to 
read — it  was  one  of  unmitigated  skepticism. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  looking  up  from  the  paper,  and  glancing 
at  Charles,  "  it  seems  that  you  are  thereatened  with  consump- 
tion, whereupon  this  wise  doctor  sends  you  to  Normandy.  I 
should  have  suggested  the  south  of  France,  decidedly.  Eut 
even  this,"  he  added,  after  a  slight  pause,  "  does  not  explain 
why,  instead  of  entering  the  chateau  by  the  front  gate,  and 
a.sking  to  see  me,  you  wander  about  the  grounds,  on  a  rainy 
night,  with  a  letter  for  me  in  your  pocket." 

"  Sir,"  calmly  answered  his  nephew.  "  do  you  forget  that 
when  we  parted,  I  pledged  my  word  not  to  return  without  your 
permission  ?" 

"  I  do  not  forget  it.  I  assure  you,"  was  the  dry  reply. 

'•  Then  cease  to  wonder  at  the  hesitation  I  felt  in  appearing 
before  you.  I  left  this  afternoon  the  village  where  I  am  stay- 
ing ;  the  storm  overtook  me  near  Sainville  ;  I  found  one  of  the 
smaller  gates  of  these  grounds  open — I  entered  unseen ;  I  in- 
iended  spending  the  night  in  this  place,  and,  as  I  felt  anxioua 


NATHALIE.  185 

fiot  to  alarm  my  mother,  either  to  wait  bore  until  you  carae 
or  until  I  met  some  servant  who  might  become  my  messenger 
to  you." 

'•  .All  this  is  plausible,  Charles, — too  plausible  by  far." 
quietly  replied  Monsieur  de  Sainville.  '-"VVehavein  France 
such  an  institution  as  tlie  post-office,  to  which  you  might  have 
confided  your  letter.  To  come  here  as  you  came  was  the  very 
way  to  alarm  your  mother ;  to  speak  to  a  servant,  the  very 
way  to  let  her  know  of  your  presence.  You  have  broken  your 
word  to  me,  but  I  do  not  resent  this  half  so  much  as  your  want 
of  candor  in  not  confessing  a  feeling  which — you  may  as  well 
know  it — is  your  only  excuse  in  my  eyes.  Why,  when  I  asked 
the  reason  of  your  return,  had  you  not  the  frankness  to  say  : 
'  I  came  back  here,  led  by  a  passion  which  wise  men  call  folly, 
but  which  subdues  the  reason  of  the  very  wisest ;  I  entered 
this  place,  not  by  a  scarcely  possible  chance,  but  because  I 
knew  that  she  whom  I  sought  was  here.  I  blame  3'ou,  Charles, 
for  shrinking  from  the  avowal  of  what  most  men  take  pride 
in, — passion,  and  its  follies." 

The  young  man  colored  deeply  at  this  unexpected  reproof; 
and  Nathalie  asked  herself  if  it  were  indeed  the  grave,  the 
cold  Monsieur  de  Sainville  who  had  thus  spoken. 

"  You  are  severe,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  with  ill- 
repressed  irritation  ;  "  but  ask  yourself  how  I  could  confide  in 
one  whose  native  coldness,  indifference,  and  rooted  skepticism. 
in  matters  of  the  heart,  I  knew  so  well  ?" 

A  slight  hectic  flush  crossed  the  pale  cheek  of  Monsieur  de 
Sainville.  Nathalie  perhaps  ought  not  to  have  looked,  but  look 
she  did,  as  if  attracted  by  an  irresistible  spell ;  his  glance  met 
hers,  and  though  he  was  a  grave  man,  and  she  but  a  young 
girl,  he  colored,  looked  disconcerted,  and  turned  his  glance 
away ;  but  he  recovered  almost  immediately,  and  addressing 
his  nephew,  said,  in  his  most  composed  tone : 

"  This  at  least  is  a  sensible  excuse ;  but  to  spare  you  un- 
necessary trouble,  to  render  this  explanation  more  clear  and 
brief,  I  may  as  well  inform  you  that  you  have  little  or  nothing 
to  disguise  from  me  ;  that,  attracted  by  the  sound  of  voices,  I 
returned  to  this  place  in  time  to  overhear  a  warm  and  generous 
vindication  of  my  honor  drawn  forth  by  accusations  which  I 
did  not  hear,  for  which  I  do  not  care,  but  the  nature  of  which 
I  can,  by  what  followed,  guess  easily." 

Charles  Marceau  slightly  turned  pale  ;  a  burning  blusi 
overspread  Nathalie's  face. 


186  NATHALIE. 

"  Then  you  listened,"  exclaimed  the  young  man. 

"  Precisely  ; — I  listened  ;  for  a  few  moments,  at  least."  verj 
calmly  returned  his  uncle. 

"  You  !  sir ;  you,  a  gentleman  F'  and  the  word  was  uttered 
with  indignant  emphasis. 

"  A  gentleman,  as  you  say,"  replied  Monsieur  de  Sainville, 
looking  him  full  and  firmly  in  the  face. 

"  Monsieur  de  Sainville,"  angrily  cried  the  young  man, 
'•'  you  told  me  yourself  that  in  certain  matters  you  would  never 
interfere;  that  the  authority  to  which  I  freely  submitted 
should  never  extend  to  feelings  which  would  render  it  unbear- 
able ;  you  have  upbraided  me  with  breach  of  my  word  ;  allow 
me  to  ask  if  you  keep  yours  ?" 

Nathalie  looked  at  Monsieur  de  Sainville  with  some  alarm  ; 
but  he  remained  quite  composed,  folded  his  arms  across  his 
breast,  and  eyed  his  nephew  with  a  stern  smile. 

'•  Charles,"  said  he,  in  his  most  unruffled  tones,  '•  do  not 
talk  so  loud  when  you  are  in  a  lady's  presence  ;  and  if  you  can, 
speak  more  sensibly  when  you  speak  to  a  man  of  the  world. 
I  say  this  as  advice ;  the  delusion  under  which  you  labor, — 
namely,  that  I  listened  to  pry  into  your  feelings,  and  interfere 
with  your  actions,  is  too  absurd  for  me  to  resent  it.  Love 
where  you  like. — act  as  you  like  ;  should  your  conduct  reach  a 
certain  point,  I  shall  know  how  to  throw  off  the  responsibility 
of  your  actions.  You  have  broken  your  word  ;  mine  is  still, 
and  ever  will  be,  inviolate.  No  matter  what  I  may  think  of 
what  I  happened  to  overhear  this  evening, — rest  assured  that 
your  mother's  brother  will  never  remember  it." 

He  uttered  this  with  a  calmness  that  deeply  disconcerted 
the  young  man ;  then  turned  towards  Nathalie,  and  resumed, 
now  speaking  with  the  ease  of  a  man  of  the  world,  and  the 
courtesy  of  a  gentleman  : 

"  It  was  the  host  and  friend  of  Mademoiselle  Montolieu, 
who,  finding  her  subjected  once  more  to  an  intrusion  which  he 
had  hoped  would  never  occur  again  whilst  she  resided  here, 
heard  enough  to  convince  himself  that  the  conversation  was  on 
her  part  a  most  involuntary  one,  and  came  forward  when  it 
was  his  evident  duty  to  interfere." 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  is  fortunate  in  such  guardian- 
ship,"  bitterly  said  Charles. 

"  Yes,  sir.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  is  very  fortunate,  in- 
deed." quickly  replied  Nathalie,  going  up,  involuntarily  per- 
haps, to  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  chair  as  she  spoke,  and  thence 
looking  at  Charles  with  a  little  indignant  air. 


NATHALIE.  187 


• 


The  child-like  warmth  and  action  made  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville  smile  ;  he  raised  his  look,  eyed  her  with  a  slow  and  silent 
gaze,  then  turned  once  more  towards  his  nephew,  and  said,  in 
a  much  milder  tone: 

"  I  think,  Charles,  we  have  had  enough  of  explanations. 
For  the  sake  of  a  passion  there  is  so  much  to  justify,  I  overlook 
the  fact  that  you  have  broken,  or  almost  broken  your  word  to 
me.  For  the  same  reason,  I  will  endeavor  to  forget  that  you 
have  presumed  to  intrude  upon  a  young  lady  residing  under 
my  roof,  consequently  under  my  express  protection.  But  let 
such  an  occurren(?e  never  take  place  again." 

This  Hidden  and  unexpected  leniency  surprised  the  young 
girl ;  but  Charles  Marceau  looked  dark  and  moody.  His  uncle 
resumed  : 

'•  With  regard  to  the  authority  you  have  allowed  me  over 
you — I  need  not  remind  you  that  it  was  not  of  my  own  seek- 
ing— you  shall  be  released  from  it  the  moment  you  wish." 

He  spoke  rather  more  coldly  now  ;  but  Charles  had  once 
more  become  quite  cool  and  collected  :  he  gravely  replied, 

'•  I  may  have  spoken  hastily,  sir,  but  I  do  not  think  I  have 
expressed  that  desire." 

"  I  suppose  you  do  not  object  to  return  to  Paris  imme- 
diately?" 

'•  I  shall  do  so." 

'•  Then  I  believe,"  observed  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  rising,- 
"  that  there  is  no  more  to  say." 

"  Uncle,"  said  the  young  man,  stepping  forward,  and,  for 
the  first  time  addressing  his  relative  thus:  "Allow  me  to  say 
a  few  words  to  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  before  she  goes." 

"  No,  no,"  hastily  said  Nathalie,  drawing  closer  to  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville,  as  if  fearing  he  would  leave  her  alone  with 
his  nephew  ;  "  you  have  nothing  to  say,  sir, — I  have  nothing 
to  hear." 

"  I  meant  in  the  presence  of  my  uncle,"  said  the  young  man^ 
looking  much  mortified. 

"  Will  you  not  hear  what  he  has  to  say  ?"  asked  Monsieur 
de  Sainville. 

She  hesitated  ;  but  sat  down,  in  token  of  compliance. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  drew  away  a  few  steps ;  Charlea 
confronted  them  both. 

"  Uncle,"  said  he,  quietly,  '•  allow  me  first  to  ask  you  a 
question.  You  know  that  I  love  this  young  lady,  who  seemed 
so  indignant  at  the  idea  of  remaining  a  few  seconds  alone  with 
me:  do  you  believe  my  affection  sincere  and  true?" 


188  NATHALIE. 

'•  And  pray,"  replied  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  with  haughty 
surprise,  "how  should  I  know  the  nature  of  your  affection  V 

"Because  you  can  distinguish  between  the  truth  and  tho 
mockery  of  passion,"'  replied  his  nephew,  with  a  fixed  look ; 
"  because,  if  report  speaks  true,  you  once  loved,  yourself — ay. 
and  loved  so  deeply,  as  not  to  care  to  love  again." 

Nathalie's  head  was  resting  on  her  hand  ;  but  she  looked 
up  very  suddenly.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  saw  her  not — his 
face  was  pale  and  rigid  with  astonished  passion  ;  his  blue  eyes, 
generally  as  calm  as  the  surface  of  deep,  but  unstirred  waters, 
now  shone  with  angry  light.  He  made  all  effort  to  be  com- 
posed, and  merely  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "  Charles  !" 

'•  Yes,  sir,  I  know,"  returned  the  young  man,  "  I  know  I 
am  recalling  the  memory  of  a  bitter  past ;  but  you  have  hum- 
bled me — you  have  made  me  look  like  a  child  found  at  fiiult, 
unworthy  of  serious  reproof — chid  for  awhile,  and  forgiven. 
Think  of  the  time  when  you  loved  as  I  love,  and  wonder  not 
if  I  feel  reckless." 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  keenly  at  Charles.  The 
wrathful  expression  of  his  face  gradually  subsided,  until  it 
wholly  vanished,  and  yielded  to  a  sort  of  calm  surprise,  per- 
haps at  his  nephew's  daring,  jierhaps  at  his  own  easily-moved 
anger  ;  but  of  a  surprise  in  which  there  blended  at  least  a 
certain  degree  of  admiration. 

"  I  rather  like  daring,"  he  said,  at  length ;  '•  but  it  is  a 
sharp  weapon  to  handle.  Do  not  repeat  this  evening's  experi- 
ment. Who  knows  whether  it  would  succeed  a  second  time  ? 
Yet  say  what  you  have  to  say  freely.  You  seem  to  think  1 
have  slighted  you,  in  a  manner  and  in  a  presence  which  made 
the  slight  doubly  keen ;  for  what  man  but  wishes  to  be  honored 
and  esteemed  by  the  woman  he  admires  and  loves  ?  If  I  have 
done  so,  I  have  indeed  wronged  you ; — speak  out,  and  prove 
it." 

He  spoke  thus  himself,  with  the  firm  and  manly  dignity  of 
one  who  loved  to  assert  his  own  strong  will ;  but  made  not 
himself  its  slave,  nor  that  of  any  passion,  however  subtle  the 
disguise  of  right  and  justice  it  might  wear. 

Nathalie  looked  at  him  with  sympathetic  admiration.  She 
had  not  that  inflexible  conscientious  judgment, — that  calm 
will,  ever  ready  to  act,  guide,  or  restrain,  with  scarce  the  seem- 
ing of  an  effort ;  but  she  admired  these  qualities  with  the  su- 
perstitious reverence  which  the  inexperienced  mariner  feels  for 
the  pilot  who  guides  his  barque  through  foaming  breaker  and 


NATHALIE.  139 

Bfconny  wave,  and  leads  it  thence,  with  calm  eye  and  ever 
steady  hand,  into  the  broad  still  waters.  She  liked  courage 
and  energy,  too ;  and  could  not  help  casting  on  Charles  Mar- 
ceau  a  glance  more  kindly  than  any  he  had  yet  won  from  her. 
But  the  young  man  seemed  already  to  reperit  the  bold  lan- 
guage which  had  led  to  all  this.  He  stood  before  his  uncle, 
in  an  attitude  between  hesitation,  doubt,  and  surprise,  half 
shunning  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  steady  glance,  and  looking 
uot  unlike  a  wary  archer,  who  for  once  has  overshot  his  mark, 
and  coolly  meditates  a  surer  aim. 

"  Uncle,"  he  slowly  said,  "  I  never  accused  you  of  wrong- 
ing me.  I  spoke,  indeed,  under  the  influence  of  strong  emo- 
tion, else  I  should  not  have  recalled  to  your  memory  a  painful 
past." 

"  Then  he  is  not  so  daring  after  all,"  thought  Nathalie, 
rather  scornfully,  and  true  to  the  feminine  instinct  of  admir- 
ing courage,  whether  moral  or  physical.  Yet  she  wronged  the 
yaung  man.  Whatever  his  faults  might  be,  he  was  no  coward. 
But  love  was  not  his  only  aim  in  life  ;  he  had  another  mistress 
besides  Nathalie  to  please  ;  one  whose  favor  he  prized  no  less 
than  hers,  and  sought  not  with  less  patient  eagerness — Ambi- 
tion. His  uncle  could  do  much  to  make  that  proud  lady  gra- 
cious ;  and  Charles  knew  it. 

''  Then  what  do  you  want  of  me?"  asked  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville. 

He  spoke  sharply,  and  looked  almost  disappointed  at  this 
sudden  calming  down  from  audacity  to  prudence. 

"  Nothing,"  respectfully  replied  his  nephew,  '•  save  that 
you  would  help  to  eiface  an  impression  you  have  helped  to 
produce." 

"I  have  agreed  to  forward  your  views  in  life  ;  but  not,  I 
think,  your  affairs  of  the  heart,"  replied  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville,  with  ill-concealed  irony.  "  Still,  if  you  think  me  bound 
to  do  so  in  justice " 

"  In  generosity,"  interrupted  Charles. 

"  Or  if  you  think  I  can  serve  in  such  matters,  why  then  be 
it  so." 

"  Then  since  you  do  not  object,"  composedly  said   Charles. 

"  Obiect  !"  asked  his  uncle,  with  a  peculiar  smilo,  "  why 
Bhould  I  ?" 

"  I  will  request  your  opinion  and  advice." 

"  Opinion  and  advice!"  echoed  Monsieur  de  Sainvillc  ;  "  I 
never  ask  or  take,  and  rarely  give  cither ;  but  if  you  val  »e 
tnino,  you  are  welcome  to  them." 


190  NATHALIE. 

He  sat  dowu  as  he  spoke  thus,  with  evidonl  carfclessncsa, 
as  if  the  passing  interest  he  had  for  a  moment  felt  were  now 
suddenly  gone.  Nathalie,  surprised  and  hurt  that  he  should 
so  readily  agree  to  interfere  in  this  matter,  gave  him  a  half 
offended  look,  but  he  did  not  heed  it.  He  sat  back  in  his 
chair,  half-reclining,  with  arms  folded,  look  sedate,  and  in  an 
attitude  of  cold  and  negligent  dignity.  He  seemed  like  one 
who  may  lend  himself  to  the  common  uses  of  daily  life,  but 
who  never  forgets  that  his  realm  and  province  lie  far  beyond, 
— where  ? — within  himself,  perchance. 

There  was  in  all  this  something  so  indifferent  and  fo 
haughty,  that,  for  a  moment,  Nathalie  thought,  almost  angrily, 
"  Why.  who.  and  what  is  that  man,  that  he  should  set  himself 
abjve  such  things,  or  make  himself  so  much  of  a  ruler  and  a 
king?" 

'•  Well."  said  he,  very  quietly,  "you  do  not  speak,  Charles  ?" 

The  young  man  was  looking  at  Nathalie  with  a  half- 
entreating,  half-watchful  look,  as  if  bidding  her  note  the  words 
he  was  going  to  utter — the  reply  they  would  win. 

Monsieur  de  Sainviile  raised  his  head,  followed  the  direc- 
tion of  his  nephew's  look,  smiled,  resumed  his  old  attitude, 
and  said,  '•  I  am  waiting." 

"  Why  not  xce  are  waiting  ;  it  would  be  more  royal  a  great 
deal,"  indignantly  thought  the  young  girl. 

Monsieur  de  Sainviile  noticed  her  Hushed  face,  and  quietly 
asked  if  she  found  the  room  too  close.  Nathalie,  a  little  dis- 
concerted, did  not  answer.  Charles,  whose  pause  was  not  one 
of  hesitation,  but  of  thought,  now  spoke  : 

'•  Sir,  do  you  believe  in  my  attachment  for  Mademoiselle 
Montolieu?" 

"  Certainly,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"  Do  you  object  to  that  attachment  V 

•'  Object  to  it  !  no  ;  why  should  I  ?" 

"  Do  you  approve  it  ?"  He  spoke  low,  but  with  a  fixod 
look.  Monsieur  de  Sainviile  returned  the  glance,  and  said, 
very  calmly  : 

'•  To  approve  would  be  to  admit  that  I  have  a  right  to  ob- 
ject. My  guardianship  over  either  you  or  Mademoiselle  Mon- 
tolieu  extends  not  so  far." 

"  May  I  know,  uncle;  in  what  light  you  view   t'lat  attach- 
ment ?"  placidly  urged  Charles. 

"  As  a  thing  that  concerns  me  not,"  frigidly  replied  hia 
uncle  j  "  my  only  concern  in  this  matter  is  to  see  that  Made 


NATHALrE.  191 

raoiselle  Montolieu  is  not  annoyed  :  you  may  feel  Avliat  you 
like." 

"  But  you  do  not  object  to  it  T'  said  Charles,  again. 

'•  No."  again  replied  his  uncle,  smiling,  as  if  he  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  understanding  why  Charles  persisted  in  his  question. 

The  young  man  looked  at  Nathalie  ;  there  was  something 
of  triumph  in  his  look,  which  brought  a  more  scornful  light  to 
her  eyes.     She  understood,  and  resented  his  meaning. 

"  Uncle,"  resumed  Charles,  once  more  addressing  his  rela- 
tive, "  allow  me  now  to  ask  your  advice.  When  a  man  loves  a 
woman,  and  is  so  unfortunate  as  not  to  be  able  to  convince  her 
of  his  aifection,  what  can  he  do  ?" 

"  Persist  or  desist, — just  as  he  chooses,"  dryly  replied  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville. 

"  But  what  do  you  advise  me  to  do  ?"   persisted  Charles. 

"  Convince  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  if  you  can,  Charles  ; 
and  if  you  cannot,  do  not  torment  her." 

'•  But  you  advise  mo  to  convince  her,  if  I  can,"  urged 
Charles. 

"  By  all  means,"  was  the  unhesitating  reply. 

'•  And  you  do  not  object  to  my  passion?" 

"  No,"  impatiently  answered  his  uncle. 

Nathalie  colored  and  looked  offended.  Charles  turned 
towards  her  ;  his  look  was  downcast ;  iiis  voice  measured  and 
low. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  he  calmly,  "  you  were  good  enough 
on  my  uncle's  solicitation  to  agree  to  listen  to  me.  It  may  be 
long  before  we  meet  again  :  you  have  refused  to  hear  me 
alone :  you  know  what  I  feel  for  you ;  allow  me  to  ask  if  I 
may  hope  ?" 

Nathalie  did  not  answer.  He  repeated  his  question,  still 
she  gave  him  no  reply.     A  third  time  he  asked. 

"  May  I  hope?" 

She  looked  up,  and  said  quietly. 

'•  You  may  hope,  sir,  since  you  call  it  so,  or  not  hope — ^just 
as  you  please.     I  have  nothing  to  do  with  -cither  feeUng." 

"  Is  this  scorn  ?"    he  asked,  turning  pale. 

"  No,  sir,  by  no  means,"  she  answered  with  something  like 
gentleness  ;  "  it  is  simply  that  you  have  asked  me  a  ij^ucstion 
you  have  no  riglit  to  ask." 

'■  Uncle,"  exclaimed  Charles,  '•  I  appeal  to  you ;  k^s  my 
question  fair  ?" 

'■  I  am  no  arbiter  in  this  case,"  replied  Monsieur  dc  Sain- 
ville. speaking  very  coldly. 


192  NATHALIE. 

'•  111  the  uanie  of  justice,  sir,  I  conjure  you  to  answer  me  : 
was  that  question  a  fair  question '?" 

"  I  think  it  was  a  fair  question,"  gravely  replied  Monsieur 
de  Sainville,  thus  adjured. 

"  I  deny  it,  I  deny  it,"  exclaimed  Nathalie  rising  as  she 
spoke,  looking  indignantly  at  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  and 
haughtily  at  his  nephew  ;  "  I  deny  it,  and  since  you  will  have 
the  truth,  sir, — why,  you  may  hear  it.  I  refuse  to  answer,  be- 
cause I  do  not  think  that  words  and  protestations  give  a  claim 
to  the  attention,  which  is  implied  by  the  fact  of  answering. 
^V^hen  a  man  has  proved  the  truth  and  courage  of  his  affection, 
when  though  he  shall  not  win  love,  he  may  at  least  compel 
esteem  and  respect,  then  perhaps,  but  not  till  then,  he  may  ask 
a  plain  question,  and  expect  a  plain  reply.  Mind,  sir,  I  do  not 
accuse  yon ;    I  merely  say  that  I  know  you  not." 

Charles  said  nothing,  but  he  evidently  chafed  inwardly. 
Monsieur  de  Sainville,  who  had  been  observing  Nathalie's 
changing  face  with  some  attention,  now  observed  with  a  smile 
that  seemed  to  imply  he  was  not  indifferent  to  the  perverse 
pleasure  of  provoking  her  a  little  further  : 

"  Pray  do  not  imagine  I  meant  you  were  bound  to  reply, 
but  allow  me  to  ask  if  you  do  not  take  too  rigid  and  exclusive 
a  view  of  so  important  a  question.  Proofs  !  What  man  can 
give  proofs  of  mere  feelings  ?  What  woman  is  sufficiently  im- 
partial to  test  the  proofs  when  given  ?  Would  it  not  be  safer 
to  go  at  once  on  the  principle  of  believing  in  the  affection  pro- 
fessed ?" 

"  Sir,"  said  Nathalie  turning  towards  him  with  a  kindling 
look,  "  allow  me  to  say  5-ou  evidently  do  not  understand  either 
this  subject  or  me." 

"  Indeed  !"  he  interjected,  looking  rather  amused. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  she  echoed  ;  '•  you  seem  to  think  I  am 
guided  by  prudence  ;  I  am  not,  sir ;  I  am  guided  by  pride." 

"  Pride  is  a  dangerous  guide,  Mademoiselle  Montolieu," 
he  observed  with  a  smile. 

"  But  at  least  frank  and  true,"  she  replied,  with  some  energy. 
"  Sir,  men  have  many  ways  of  vindicating  their  honor  and  as- 
serting their  dignity, — woman  but  one.  I  am — whatever  my 
station  may  be — a  woman,  and  I  will  exact  as  much  observance 
and  respect  as  any  great  lady ;  neither  poverty  nor  obscure 
birth  shall  make  me  'bate  one  atom  of  my  pride.  Monsieur 
Marceau  is  free  to  carry  his  affections  elsewhere  ;  if  he  wishes 
to  know  my  mind,  he  shall  bide  my  pleasure  and  my  time.     I 


.NATHALIE.  103 

will  not  admit  that,  for  having  si^oken  to  me  three  times — 
every  time  against  my  will — one,  of  whom  I  otherwise  know 
nothing,  has  a  claim  to  a  serious  reply,  or  a  right  to  be  heard. 
Women  are  surely  not  so  cheap  that  such  mere  attentions 
should  make  a  man  win  or  lose  them  !" 

She  spoke  with  all  the  eloquent  rapidity  of  southern  vehe- 
mence, without  a  second's  pause  or  a  moment's  hesitation. 

'•  I  believe,  Charles,"  quietly  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 
that  this  is  decisive." 

"  Decisive  !"  echoed  the  young  man,  in  a  tone  of  subdued 
irritation;  "  how  so?  If  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  has  refused 
to  say  '  hope,'  she  has  not  said  '  do  not  hope.'  Why.  then, 
should  I  not,  as  you  yourself  advised  me,  sir,  seek  to  convince 
and  change  her." 

'•  Provided  she  permits  your  attentions,"  coldly  said  his 
uncle. 

"No,  no,"  quickly  exclaimed  Nathalie;  "I  do  not, — I  will 
not." 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  said  Charles,  in  a  low  tone, 
"this  is  strange  and  contradictory.  You  exact  proofs,  and 
then  refuse  them.     Shall  I  ask  if  you  are  capricious  ?" 

"  And  shall  I  ask.  sir,  if  you  are  free  to  give  those  proofs?" 
coldly  replied  Nathalie.  "  I  speak  not  in  a  spirit  of  recrimina- 
tion," she  added,  more  gently,  as  she  saw  him  change  color. 
"  I  might  have  alluded  to  this  before,  but  I  thought  it  more 
just  and  generous  to  consider  the  offer  of  your  affection  in 
itself,  and  without  reference  to  circumstances  over  which  you 
had  no  control.  But  though  I  reproach  you  not  for  that  which 
is  no  fault  of  yours,  wonder  not  if  I  decline  attentions  your 
mother  would  oppose  or  resent,  and  to  accept  which  would 
imply,  on  my  part,  either  the  meanest  perfidy  or  the  most 
heroic  patience,  as  I  chose  to  deceive  or  brave  her.  Perfidious 
I  never  will  be ;  and  patient,  sir.  you  know  well  enough  that 
I  am  not." 

The  young  man  did  not  answer.  What  could  he  say  ?  His 
uncle  rose,  walked  up  to  Nathalie,  and  laying  his  hand  gently 
on  her  arm,  said  to  his  nephew,  eyeing  him  steadily  as  he 
spoke : 

"  Charles,  you  love  this  young  girl.  I  do  not  blame  you  ; 
and  if.  spite  of  all  the  obstacles  which  rise  against  your  passion, 
you  choose  to  persist,  why,  then,  love  on.  and  run  your  chance. 
Fortune  may  end  by  befriending  you.  But,  in  the  mean  time, 
do  not  forget  this :  through  your  own  imprudence,  this  same 

9 


194  NATlIALin. 

youug  girl  has  become  my  guest ;  she  is  under  the  shield  of 
juy  roof,  name,  and  honor.  You  have  yourself  heard  her  ac 
cepting  this  guardianship,  which  shall  only  be  to  protect,  and 
never  to  control  her.  I  shall,  therefore,  no  more  permit  an  in- 
trusion on  her  privacy  than  if  she  were  my  sister  or  my  child. 
Feel  as  you  like,  and  as  much  as  you  like  ;  but  confine  yourself 
to  feeling.  Should  any  thing  like  what  has  happened  this 
evening  occur  again,  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  not  be  so  easily 
appeased ;  but  that  I  shall  resent  it  as  much,  and  precisely  in  the 
same  way,  as  if  we  were  the  merest  strangers,  without  one  drop 
of  the  same  blood."  He  spoke  imperatively,  and  looked  almost 
stern  ;  but,  as  if  repenting  this,  he  resumed,  in  his  usual  tone  : 
"  I  speak  thus  to  warn,  not  to  threaten.  I  have  faith  in  your 
good  sense  and  honor." 

Thus  saying,  he  quietly  passed  the  unresisting  arm  of 
Nathalie  within  his  own,  and  left  the  hermitage. 

The  young  man  did  not  reply.  His  face  was  pale ;  his 
lips  were  compressed.  He  walked  up  to  the  door,  and  stood 
there  montionless.  His  moody  and  abstracted  glance  long 
followed  the  two  forms,  now  slowly  vanishing  in  the  evening 
obscurity. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

The  walk  home  was  silent.  The  rain  had  ceased;  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville  led  his  companion  by  the  terraces ;  it  was 
the  longer  but  also  the  dryer  M^ay.  Once  when  they  came  to  a 
pool  of  water,  visible  by  the  faint  and  trembling  moonlight,  he 
lifted  her  over  it  with  as  little  hesitation  and  as  much  ease  as 
if  she  were  a  child.  She  gave  him  a  half-ofi"ended  look,  but  on 
seeing  how  abstracted  he  looked,  and  how  little  he  evidently 
thought  of  the  cause  of  her  displeasure,  she  had  discretion 
enougii  to  feel  that  it  would  be  better  not  to  seem  offended. 
She  did  not  speak  until  they  entered  the  lime-tree  avenue. 

"  Where  are  we  going,  sir  ?"  she  then  asked. 

'•  To  the  library,  unless  you  object.  There  is  a  p'-Ivatr 
staircase  by  which  you  can  go  up  to  your  own  room  at  once. 
It  is  therefore  shorter  than  to  go  by  the  front  entrance.'' 

Nathalie  by  no  means  objected.     She  had  now  bcou  out 


NATHALIE.  199 

saveral  hours ;  her  long  absence  would  be  tbouglit  strange ; 
tlie  sooner  she  could  change  her  attire  and  make  her  appear- 
ance, the  better. 

It  was  Monsieur  de  Sainville'3  habit  to  have  CA'cry  room 
devoted  to  his  separate  use  lit  at  a  certain  hour,  whether  he 
was  present  or  not.  , 

He  disliked  to  repeat  the  same  orders  evening  after  even- 
ing ;  indeed,  whenever  he  took  a  new  servant  he  gave  him  a 
concise  and  exact  account  of  his  duties  ;  informing  hira  that 
this  account  was  given  once  for  all,  that  he  consequently  hoped 
not  to  be  under  the  necessity  of  having  to  repeat  it ;  and, 
thanks  to  the  quiet  authority  of  his  manner,  the  necessity 
rarely  occurred.  It  was  owing  to  this  peculiarity  that  Nacha- 
lie  now  found  the  library  quite  solitary,  but  in  a  brilliant  state 
of  illumination.  A  large  lamp  shed  its  light  on  the  table ;  and 
waxlights,  which  had  been  burning  for  some  time  in  silver 
sconces  hanging  against  the  walls,  filled  the  place  with  their 
clear  pale  ray. 

iS^o  spot  of  a  room  where  Monsieur  de  Sainville  chose  to  be. 
was  to  remain  ill  inconvenient  obscurity.  Few  men  cared  so 
little  for  the  more  delicate  luxuries  of  life,  but  few,  also,  made 
every  thing  within  their  sphere  and  power  so  subservient  to 
their  will  as  he  did  to  his. 

"That  man  turns  the  very  lights  into  his  obedient  slaves," 
thought  Nathalie,  a  little  indignantly.  A  rapid  look,  given 
whilst  Monsieur  de  Sainville  closed  the  door,  had  sufficed  her 
to  observe  all  this,  and  to  comment  upon  it  inwardly.  As  he 
came  forward  she  remembered,  and  looked  for,  the  private  stair- 
case he  had  mentioned,  but  looked  in  vain  ;  she  could  only  see 
two  doors,  that  by  which  they  had  just  entered,  and  that  which 
led  to  the  hall.  Sign  of  other  egress  there  was  none.  She 
looked  puzzled  and  he  amused. 

-"  I  see,"  said  he,  '•  that  you  are  impatient  to  go  ;  but  we 
cannot  part  thus.    You  are  a  little  vexed  with  me.  are  you  not?" 

He  spoke  with  a  smile  which  displeased  Nathalie,  and  made 
her  look  as  she  felt;  but  he  was  one  to  bear  a  lady's  displea- 
sure with  equal  composure  and  courtesy,  and  still  waited  hei 
aiiswer.     She  hesitated — then  replied  with  sudden  promptness; 

'•  Yes,  sir.  I  am  vexed  with  you." 

He  looked  more  amused  than  alarmed,  and  said  quietly: 

'•  Pray,  what  have  I  done  V 

She  remained  silent. 

'•  You  will  not  t«ll  me  my  ofFence  V 


196  NATHALIE. 

No  reply. 

'•  What  !  not  even  a  bint  ?" 

She  looked  up  and  eyed  him  very  comj^osedly. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  sir,"  she  said,  '•  if  you  will  only  assure  mo 
that  you  do  not  know  or  guess." 

'•  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  he  replied,  in  a  tone  of  feeling 
reproach,  '•  this  answer  does  not  sound  like  yours,  for  it  is  not 
quite  frank  ;  there  is  a  decided  air  of  Norman  and  legal  ambig- 
uousness  about  it:  however,  it  implies  so  flattering  a  belief  in 
my  veracity  that  I  know  not  how  to  complain.  You  are  vexed 
with  me  because  I  spoke  as  I  did,  and  yet  I  scarcely  regret  it; 
for  had  I  not  spoken  so,  I  should  not  know  with  how  much 
spirit,  courage,  and  frankness,  a  young  girl  could  assert  the 
privileges  and  dignity  of  her  sex.'' 

He  spoke  quite  seriou.sly  now  ;  he  spoke  too  in  words  of 
praise,  rare  at  any  time  from  his  lips,  and  for  the  first  time 
addressed  to  Nathalie  by  him.  She  felt  moved,  but  did  not 
reply  ;  he  resumed  in  his  old  manner  : 

"  Pray  let  us  be  friends  ;  it  is  unnatural  for  guardian  and 
ward  to  quarrel." 

'■  Unnatural  !"  said  Nathalie,  half  turning  round  with  a  de- 
mure smile  ;  "  why  all  the  old  plays  and  tales  I  ever  read  ran 
on  the  quarrels  of  guardians  and  wards." 

"  But  we  will  do  better." 

"  Yes,  much  bettei*.  Besides,  guardians  in  those  times 
ncem  to  have  been  peevish  and  so  old." 

"  Then  we  are  friends  ?"  he  said  again,  without  seeming  to 
heed  this  remark. 

She  smiled  and  spontaneously  held  out  her  hand  in  token 
of  reconciliation.  He  took  it,  and  looked  at  her,  with  smiling 
kindness,  as  a  father  might  look  at  his  child. 

"  Poor  little  thing  !"  he  said,  at  length,  when  she  began  to 
wonder  at  his  silence  ;  "  I  dare  say  you  have  not  many  friends 
here  V 

"  Two,"  she  answered, 

''•  Two  !"  said  he,  surprised ;  "  I  thought  you  had  only  youi 
sister." 

She  too  looked  surprised. 

'•  And  my  guardian,"  she  said,  half  in  jest — half  in  earnest 

He  looked  at  her  ;  she  colored  involuntarily,  and  without 
knowing  why  ;  something  like  a  sudden  cloud  passed  across 
his  brow  ;  he  did  not  drop  her  hand,  but  his  hold  relaxed ;  she 
wished  to  withdraw  it,  for  she  had  an  uncomfortable  sensation 


NATHALIE.  K*7 

of  having  gone  too  far  ;  but  he  detained  it  firmly  within  his, 
and  said,  vei-y  seriously  : 

"  Yes,  you  have  two  friends." 

He  let  her  hand  go,  went  to  the  library,  and  touched  a 
spring  ;  one  of  the  compartments,  which  Nathalie  had  thought 
to  be  filled  with  books,  opened,  and  disclosed  steep  and  narrow 
steps,  winding  away  into  deepening  gloom.  He  stood  below., 
holding  the  lamp,  whilst  she  went  up  ;  she  was  light  and  agile, 
and  reached  the  top  of  the  staircase  without  one  false  step ; 
there  a  door,  which  yielded  to  her  touch,  admitted  her  into  the 
long  passage,  at  the  end  of  which  stood  her  own  room.  She 
remembered  having  heard  Aunt  Radegonde  say  that  the  door 
facing  this  led  to  one  of  the  tui-rets — no  doubt  that  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville.  This  accounted  for  his  being  so  seldom 
met  or  seen  in  the  other  parts  of  the  chateau. 

She  had  soon  changed  her  dress  ;  but  as  she  smoothed  her' 
hair,  she  suddenly  missed  a  narrow  velvet,  which  she  wore 
bound  several  times  around  her  head,  according  to  the  fashion 
of  the  period.  This  velvet,  a  present  from  Aunt  Radegonde, 
worn  that  day  for  the  first  time,  was,  unfortunately,  distin- 
guished b}^  a  little  silver  edge.  She  concluded  she  had  left  it 
in  the  hermitage. 

'■'•  Alioiis  F'  she  impatiently  thought;  '-I  hope  to  keep  all 
this  quiet;  but  I  suppose  that  the  first  servant  who  goes  in 
there  to-morrow  morning  will  know  of  my  presence,  thanks  to 
that  velvet  and  its  silver  edge." 

She  felt  provoked,  and  then  pride  asked,  "  Why  should  she 
care  ?"  and  bade  her  go  down  quite  composedly  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

Madame  Marccau  sat  in  majestic  state,  with  her  pile  of 
cushions  behind  and  around  her.  and  something  of  haughtiness 
in  the  very  way  in  which  her  feet  rested  on  a  broad  stool. 
With  her  shawl,  her  silks,  her  sparkling  jewels,  and  her  dark 
face,  on  which  the  light  of  the  lamp  now  shone  full  and  clear, 
she  looked  like  a  handsome  eastern  despot.  Nathalie  paused 
near  the  door,  to  look  at  the  haughty  lady. 

'•  When  will  that  woman  wish  me  to  be  her  daughter?"  sho 
thought,  remembering  what  had  passed  that  same  evening. 

She  slowly  came  foj*ward,  and  silently  took  her  usual  seat. 
How  much  had  occurred  since  he  had  left  that  drawing-room  a 
i'ew  hours  before  !  Madame  Marccau  was  not  alone  ;  her  friend 
partly  reclined  on  a  low  couch,  where,  with  her  indolent  atti- 
tude and  half-closed  eyes,  she  looked  like  a  languid  sultana,  as 


l9S  NATHALIE. 

calm  and  apathetic  as  the  other  was  active  and  restless.  Tiiej 
were  engaged  in  earnest  conversation,  that  is  to  say,  Madame 
Marceau  spoke,  and  Madame  de  Jussac  put  in  a  word  now  and 
then.  The  accident  and  its  consequences,  which  had  appa- 
rently extended  much  farther  up  the  river,  occupied  them  ex- 
slusively. 

'•  Deplorable  !"  exclaimed  Madame  Marceau  ;  '•  ten  families 
ruined  ;  we  must,  of  course,  do  something  for  these  people." 

"  Are  they  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  tenants  ?"  asked  Ma- 
dame de  Jussac. 

'•  No,  they  are  not  on  Qiir  land;  but  we  are  not  the  less 
bound  to  come  to  their  aid.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  Madame 
de  Jussac  says  you  remained  out ;  1  hope  you  did  not  get  wet. 
Ida  ckere"  she  added,  without  waiting  for  Nathalie's  reply, 
'•  what  do  you  say  to  a  lottery  ?" 
•       •'  Excellent !"  was  the  calm  answer. 

"  Excellent,  as  you  say."  From  that  moment  the  idea  of 
the  lottery  seemed  to  occupy  her  exclusively. 

Madame  de  Jussac  turned  towards  Nathalie,  and  quietly 
asked  if  she  had  remained  out  in  the  rain,  and  got  very  wet? 

"  Not  very  wet,"  replied  Nathalie,  much  disturbed. 

It  did  not  add  to  her  composure  to  perceive  that  Madame 
de  Jussac's  slow,  but  attentive  look,  was  scanning  her  change 
of  dress. 

"  You  must  have  found  a  convenient  shelter,"  she  observed, 
in  her  languid  way  ;  '•  I  never  saw  such  heavy  rain :  you  were 
surely  not  out  all  the  time  ?" 

Nathalie  bent  over  her  work,  without  answering:  indeed, 
Madame  Marceau  gave  her  no  time  to  do  so.  Her  own  im- 
pression was,  that  Nathalie  had  kept  away  from  the  drawing- 
room  through  a  very  proper  sense  of  discretion ;  where  and 
how  she  had  spent  that  evening,  was  a  minor  point,  in  whicl. 
she  took  not  the  least  interest.  She  now  engaged  her  inquisi- 
tive friend  in  so  close  a  conversation  on  the  proposed  lottery ; 
its  probable  results  ;  the  prizes  to  be  drawn  ;  the  tickets  to  bo 
pxctoed,  and  other  such  questions,  that  Madame  de  Jussac  had 
not  the  opportunity  of  renewing  her  inquiries. 

About  half  an  hour  had  elapsed,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  IMousieur  de  Sainville  entered.  He  took  no  notice  of 
Nathalie,  and  sat  at  the  end  of  the  table  farthest  from  that 
n'here  she  worked,  near  the  two  ladies.  The  ruined  families^ 
the  lottery,  and  Madame  de  Jussac,  were  immediately  forgot- 
ten for  "  dear  Armand,  his  heroism,"  and  so  forth.  "  Hnd  he 
got  wet?  he  must  be  chilly  ? — could  nothing  be  done?" 


.\ATHALIE.  !9U 

Madame  Marceau's  Armancl  beard  her,  and  replied,  witli 
evident,  though  repressed  impatience.  Nathalie  took  a  mis- 
shievous  pleasure  ia  noticing  how  he  fretted  internally  beneath 
his  sister's  praise,  and  the  word  of  quiet  eulogy  which  Madame 
do  Jussac  put  in  now  and  then. 

At  length  both  ladies  desisted  ;  but  first  Madame  Marccau 
adroitly  dropped  the  word  "  lottery." 

'•A  lottery — what  for?"  he  promptly  asked. 

'•  For  those  poor  ruined  families,  Armand.  As  she  spoke, 
Madame  Marceau  looked  anxiously  at  her  brother.  Nathalie, 
who  had  formerly  heard  him  mention  this  not  very  elevated 
sort  of  charity  in  terms  of  contemptuous  pity,  expected  some 
objection,  but  he  only  looked  thoughtful,  and  said  nothing. 

'•  Yes,"  gaj'ly  continued  his  sister,  interpi-eting  his  silence 
into  approval ;  "  a  lottery  we  must  have.  Mademoiselle  Natha- 
lie,"— on  hearing  herself  thus  fiimiliatly  addressed,  the  young 
girl  perceived  that  the  lady  was  in  high  good  humor:  "Made- 
moiselle Nathalie,  I  claim  a  purse  of  your  work,  at  the  very 
least ;  you.  ma  cMrc^  have  already  pledged  yourself  to  the  con- 
tribution of  I  know  not  how  many  charming  things  ;  my  aunt 
must  give  us  some  clicf-cVceiivre  in  the  knitting  way.  Do  not 
think  to  escape,  Armand ;  you  have  brought  back  too  many  de- 
lightful curiosities  from  3"our  wanderings,  not  to  have  a  few  to 
spare  for  the  sake  of  charity." 

'■'•  True ;  but  I  will  give  you  a  greater  curiosity  by  far — ■ 
good  advice." 

Madame  Marceau  coughed,  and  looked  annoyed. 
•■  Well,  Armand,"  she  said,  with  a  constrained  smile,  -  let 
us  hear  this  good  advice." 

"  In  the  first  place,  how  many  tickets  do  3'ou  mean  to 
issue?" 

"  Two  or  three  thousand :  less  will  not  do." 

"  How  will  you  dispose  of  them  ?" 

"  Madame  de  Jussac  has  very  kindly  offered  to  dispose  of 
half  the  number  issued." 

'•  But  how  will  you  dispose  of  the  other  thousand  or  fifteen 
hundred  ?" 

Madame  Marceau's  brow  darkened :  this  was  a  sensitive 
point.  She  had  been  so  long  buried  in  bourgeois  obscurity. 
and  her  brother  cared  so  little  for  society,  that  her  circle  of 
acquaintance  was  as  yet  very  narrow.  This  was  a  matter  in 
«vhich  she  could  not  think  of  imposing  on  Madame  de  Jussac. 
'.n  whose  lips   she  now  detected  a  smile  of  careless  triumph 


200  NATHALIE. 

Thanking  her  brother  very  little  for  this  exposure,  she  coldlj 
replied, 

"  I  really  do  not  know." 

He  smiled  in  a  very  provoking  manner,  as  if  rather  pleased 
than  otherwise  at  having  thrown  cold  water  on  his  sister's 
Bcliemes.  Such,  at  least,  was  Nathalie's  charitable  conclusion 
as  she  looked  up  from  her  work,  and  attentively  watched  his 
face.  She  sat  rather  in  the  shade,  and  he  at  the  other  end  of 
the  table,  in  the  circle  of  light  shed  by  the  lamp. 

"  We  must  have  less  tickets,  I  suppose,"  said  Madame 
Marceau,  in  a  vexed  tone. 

"  Impossible,"  quietly  replied  her  brother ;  '•  the  damage 
done,  as  you  say,  is  great.  The  produce  of  the  lottery  must 
be  worth  offering." 

"  Which  means  that  I  had  better  give  it  up,"  observed  tlie 
lady,  rather  indignantly;  "is  that  your  'good  advice,'  Ar- 
mand  ?" 

'•  By  no  means,"  he  replied,  smiling  again,  "I  have  only 
pointed  out  the  difficulty ;  I  am  going  to  deliver  you  from  it 
now.  The  lottery  is  evidently  insufficient ;  but  on  the  day 
when  it  is  to  take  place,  throw  open  the  grounds  to  the  good 
people  of  Sainville, — not  the  garden,  for  to  that  I  have  a 
decided  objection.  Give  them  a  little  fete  champHre,  with  a 
dance  on  the  lawn  ;  let  the  price  of  entrance  not  be  too  high, — 
bourgeois  are  sparing  of  their  money.  Many  will  come,  and 
the  produce  of  both  fete  and  lottery  will,  I  am  sure,  cover  all 
tho  losses  these  poor  people  have  sustained." 

Madame  Marceau  heard  her  brother  with  a  triumphant 
surprise  she  took  great  pains  to  conceal  from  the  languid  look 
of  her  friend.  But,  spite  of  all  she  could  do,  her  haughty  face 
was  flushed,  and  her  dark  eyes  kindled,  as  she  listened  to  this 
solution  of  the  difficulty.  The  sister  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
knew  she  could  not  be  a  political  lady,  on  the  legitimate  side, 
at  least,  like  Madame  de  Jussac,  who  guided  all  the  intrigues 
of  the  district ;  for  her  friend  was  a  Countess,  and  she  was 
unfortunately  the  widow  of  a  merchant ;  besides,  her  brother, 
through  whom  she  might  have  been  something,  professed  a 
profound  indifference  for  every  political  party.  She  could  not 
be  a  graceful  and  accomplished  lady  of  the  world,  for  she  had 
no  high  connections,  and  v,'ould  not  stoop  to  second-rate  ones. 
But  slie  could  be  a  popular  lady, — the  lady  of  Sainville. 
Abroad  she  had  many  rivals,  but  none  at  home,  and  like  Caesar, 
Bho  loved  where  she  did  rule  to  rule  alone.     Tlie  suggestions 


NATHALIE  201 

of  hei*  brother  fell  on  her  ear  like  the  realization  of  her  long- 
cherished  and  ambitious  dreams  She  beheld  the  fete  in  auti 
eipation  ;  she  saw  herself  the  queen  of  the  day,  sailing  through 
respectful  crowds,  polite  to  a  select  few,  gracious  to  all,  and 
patronizing  bourgeois  and  shopkeepers  to  her  haughty  heart's 
content.  Nay,  she  could  not  help  remembering  that  tho 
elections  were  at  hand  ;  if  Armand  would  only  consent  to 
become  a  candidate,  let  himself  be  elected,  and  agree  to  take 
his  seat  as  deputy?  He  could  if  he  would  ;  then  why  should 
he  not  ?  She  fastened  her  dai'k.  stealthy  eyes  on  her  brother, 
and  eagerly  scanned  that  face,  so  pale  and  severe,  which  ever 
seemed  to  baffle  tho  scrutiny  it  irresistibly  attracted.  Why 
had  he,  who  by  no  means  professed  himself  to  be  a  philan- 
thropist, been  so  zealous  in  saving  the  paltry  crops  of  still 
more  paltry  Villagers  ?  Why  had  he,  who  despised  the  sur- 
reptitious charity  of  lotteries,  so  readily  agreed  to  hers  1  Why 
had  he,  who  was  so  jealous  of  his  privacy  and  solitude,  offered 
to  open  his  luxurious  and  carefully-guarded  grounds  to  the 
prying  gaze  and  obtrusive  presence  of  paying  guests  ?  Why 
was  all  this?  Was  it  the  result  of  some  deep  and  secret 
scheme  ?  Did  he,  v.-ho  chose  to  appear  so  skeptical  and  so 
indifferent,  long  in  his  heart  for  political  power, — that  passion 
of  man's  noon-day  life  1  She  scarcely  hoped  so,  and  yet  it 
would  be  strange  indeed  if  he, — still  in  all  the  fulness  and 
vigor  of  existence, — had  not  even  a  desire  to  fulfil  or  an  aim 
to  pursue.  But,  far  as  her  thoughts  had  wandered,  the 
cautious  lady  knew  how  to  seem  not  to  have  for  one  instant 
forgotten  the  lottery  and  the  proposed  fete. 

"  Your  advice  is  good,  Armand,"  she  smilingly  said,  "  but 
expensive." 

"  This  objection  was  intended  to  blind  Madame  do  Jussac, 
who  was  to  conclude  that  her  friend  had  been  engaged  in 
economical  calculations.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  sur- 
prised. 

"  I  dare  say  you  will  not  mind  either  trouble  or  expcnso 
incurred  for  the  sake  of  a  good  deed,"  he  replied. 

''  I  see  he  is  willing  to  pay,  but  will  not  appear  in  the 
matter,"  she  thought.  "  What  if  we  have  the  f6te  without  the 
dancing?"  she  again  objected,  now  speaking  aloud. 

"By  no  means,"  he  very  quickly  said;  "without  tho 
dancing  !     Wliy,  Rosalie,  half  the  people  would  not  come." 

"  Oh  !  proud  brother  of  mine,  you,  too.  have  set  yowT  heart 
en    popularity   and    power?"    inwardly    exclaimed    Madama 

9* 


202  NATIIALTE. 

MarceRu,  looking  at  him  Avith  secret  triumpli,  and  already 
beholding  herself  in  Paris,  the  centre  of  a  political  coterie  in 
her  brother's  h6tel,  whilst  Charles  went  off  as  attache  d'ani' 
bassade  with  his  Excellency,  no  matter  who. 

"  I  give  in."  she  said  aloud,  as  if  she  had  all  this  time  been 
engaged  in  some  economical  struggle ;  "  and  sincerely  thank 
my  dear  brother  for  his  judicious  advice." 

"  Then  I  shall  test  your  gratitude,"  he  replied,  "  by  re- 
questing that  you  will  take  on  yourself  the  sole  management 
of  every  thing,  and  for  once  allow  me  to  drop  the  character  of 
host  and  become  your  guest." 

Madame  Marceau  dilated  with  triumpli. 

The  struggle  had  been  long ;  but  her  brother  acknowledged 
her  power ;  there  was  sweetness  in  this  tardy  victory.  She 
felt  happy,  elated,  and  glanced  with  secret  exultation  at 
Madame  de  Jussac.  who,  in  her  placid  way.  had  already  chosen 
to  drop  a  few  hints  concerning  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  singu- 
lar strength  of  character.  But  the  lady  was  not  at  that  mo- 
ment looking  towards  her ;  she  was  amusing  herself  with 
watching  Nathalie,  opposite  whom  her  sofa  lay.  On  the  first 
mention  of  the  fete,  the  young  girl  had  laid  down  her  work  on 
her  lap  and  listened  attentively :  but,  as  the  discussion  con- 
tinued, and  the  plan  matured,  she  gradually  and  unconsciously 
edgoct  her  chair  round  so  as  to  face  the  speakers.  Now  she 
was  sitting  with  botli  her  arms  resting  and  folded  on  the  table, 
half-bent  foi'ward  with  eager  look  and  parted  lips,  in  an  atti- 
tude of  breathless  attention. 

"  I  know  who  will  dance  at  the  fete,"  said  Madame  de  Jus- 
iac,  with  a  smile,  thus  drawing  attention  to  the  young  girl. 

Nathalie,  who  had  remained  wholly  unconscious  of  obsciva- 
tion,  started,  colored,  hung  down  her  head,  and  pretended  to 
be  looking  for  her  work.  Vain  attempt  at  composure  !  Y/hen 
she  looked  up,  her  face  was  radiant,  her  eyes  danced  with  de- 
light, and  irrepressible  smiles  played  around  her  demurely 
closed  lips. 

"  ])o  you  care  about  dancing?"  asked  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville,  looking  at  her  for  the  first  time  since  his  entrance. 

'•  Yes,  sir,  I  like  it,"  she  replied,  a  little  mortified  to  find 
he  had  so  soon  forgotten  their  conversation  in  the  hermitage 

"  Then  I  promise  you  that  you  shall  not  miss  one  quadrille,' 
observed  JIadame  Marceau.  now  in  her  most  amiable  mood. 
*  Come,  Oiia  cliirc,  when  shall  it  be?" 

Madame  do  Jussac,  thus   addressed,  replied  cajmly;  but 


NATHALIE.  203 

fiCr  friend  was  in  high  spirits,  and  went  ou  arranging  and  pro 
jccting  for  an  hour  and  more.  Then,  however,  a  sudden  silence 
fell  on  the  whole  party^  Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  grave, 
almost  moody;  Madame  Marceau  thought  him  absorbed  by 
the  coming  meeting,  and  she  already  revelled  in  the  imagined 
triumphs  of  the  grarida  dame  popidaire^  and  of  the  political 
woman.  Nathalie  worked  on  in  silence,  and  looked  vei-y  scri 
ous,  but  all  the  time  a  bright  vision  floated  before  her :  shf 
saw  a  gay  dance  on  the  green  :  she  heard  the  merry  music — 
merry  even  to  those  who  care  little  for  dancing — ^of  galop, 
waltz,  and  quadrille.  Madame  de  Jussac  looked  on  through 
her  half  closed  eyes,  and  drew  her  own  conclusions  from  all  she 
saw.  until  the  party  separated  at  a  later  hour  than  usual. 

The  week  which  this  lady  spent  at  the  chateau,  was  not 
productive  in  incident.  Madame  Marceau,  though  affecting 
familiarity,  and  calling  her  ^tna  diere^  ma  honne^  and  ma  belle, 
to  show  that  they  were  old  friends — they  had  known  one  an- 
other in  childhood — was  in  evident  awe  of  her  quiet  guest,  and 
submitted  to  all  her  opinions  and  decisions  in  matters  of 
worldly  knowledge.  Aunt  Radegonde,  without  speaking  too 
openly,  gave  broad  hints  to  Nathalie  about  people  who  made 
one  feel  chill  and  uncomfortable.  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
looked  more  cold  and  haughty  than  he  had  ever  looked. 

Nathalie  soon  noticed  a  tacit  sort  of  quarrel  was  continu- 
ally going  on  between  him  and  his  sister's  friend.  At  first, 
the  lady  enveloped  him  in  a  soft  silken  net  of  the  most  subtle 
courtesy  and  grace.  It  was  flattery  so  delicate,  that  no  man 
could  possibly  resent  it,  and  then  succeeded  a  constant  instinc- 
tive sort  of  appealing  to  his  opinion  and  judgment,  that  was 
far  more  flattering  than  mere  speech ;  but  in  an  unlucky  hour 
Madame  de  Jussac  said  something  about  politics,  and  confessed 
the  warm  interest  she  felt  in  the  elder  Bourbons.  Nathalie 
saw. Monsieur  de  Sainville  smile,  as  if  he  now  understood  why 
he  had  been  so  perseveringly  courted,  and  from  that  moment 
the  quarrel  began.  Of  course,  it  was  a  polite,  well-bred,  smil- 
mg  quarrel ;  politics  formed  the  ostensible  theme,  but  perhaps 
Dolitics  had  in  reality  little  to  do  with  it.  There  might  Ijo 
SMch.  a  thing  as  piqued  amour-inopre  on  one  side,  and  ironical 
cesentment  on  the  other. 

It  was,  perhaps,  for  the  charitable  purpose  of  punishing 
Monsieur  de  Sainville.  who  now  scarcely  noticed  the  young 
girl,  that  Madame  de  Jussac  suddenly  took  a  great  fancy  to 
her.  and  almost  exclusively  engaged  her  company  ;  he  certainly 


•204  NATHALIE. 

did  not  appear  to  view  their  intimacy  with  pleasure  ;  but  Na 
thalie,  piqued  at  his  coldness,  did  not  care.  She  was  youngj 
frank  as  her  years,  and  she  yielded  freely  to  the  insinuating 
grace  which  no  one  knew  better  how  to  exercise  than  Madamo 
de  Jussac. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  the  lady  left,  promising  to  come  back 
for  the  fete.  After  her  departure,  matters  resumed  their  old 
course  at  the  chateau,  Madame  Marceau  moved  about  once 
more  with  authoritative  air  and  speech  ;  Aunt  Radegonde  was 
garrulous  and  cheerful ;  and  Nathalie  felt  that  the  change  gra- 
dually vanished  from  the  manner  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

For  the  nest  fovtniglit,  the  chclteau  was  kept  in  a  constant 
state  of  bustle  and  preparation  by  Madame  Marceau  de  Sain- 
ville, as  she  now  began  to  be  called.  The  little  town  echoed 
with  her  praises,  and  the  rumor  of  her  charity  and  munificence 
spread  wherever  the  tidings  of  the  disaster,  which  she  thus 
generously  sought  to  repair,  had  penetrated. 

Whilst  she  disposed   of  tickets,    gave    orders,  made  pur- 
chases,   and   saw  to  every  thing,   Nathalie  and  the  Canoness 
worked  together  in  the  boudoir  or  in  the  garden.  Aunt  Rade- 
gonde, in  her  zeal,  nearly  knitted  herself  ill ;  Nathalie  was  ful- 
ly as   industrious.     This  busy  fortnight,  with  its  day  of  plea- 
sure still  in  view,  delighted  her.     The  time  passed  lightly.     At 
night  she  dreamt  of  endless  dancing  on  the  lawn  ;  and  all  day 
long  she  worked  at  various  articles  of  fancy  work,  destined  for 
the  lottery,  and  of  which  Madame  Marceau  provided  the  ma 
terials.     To  the  annoyance  of  his  aunt,  "  who,  not  being  inqul 
sitive,  would  not  have  given  a  pin  to  know,"  Monsieur  de  Sain 
ville  declined  exhibiting  his  contributions  to  the  general  fund 
and  took  it  on  himself  to  criticize  very  freely  the  various  arti 
cles  manufactured  by  his  aunt  and   Nathalie.     He  said  the 
flimsy  counterpane  could  give  no  warmth  ;  censured  the  cob- 
web mittens  ;  pronounced  the  opera-caps  unbecoming  ;  and  so 
much  irritated  the  little  Canoness,  that  she  told  him  roundly 
•'  he  could   not  do   so  much,  were  he  to  try  ever  so  long," — a 
fact  he  willingly  granted.     Nathalie's  productions  fared  still 


NATHALIE.  205 

worse.  He  held  up  her  embroidered  bag  to  ridicuk  ;  declared 
that  her  cicar-case  was  such  aa  no  man  of  sense  would  use  ; 
but  chiefly  derided  a  little  round  silk  purse,  with  a  silver  clasp, 
which  she  was  knitting,  and  which  was  destined  to  hold  a  Na 
poleon,  or  the  change  of  one.  This  he  declai-ed  it  could  not. 
Nathalie,  piqued  in  her  amour-jvojve,  insisted  that  it  could 
The  contest  lasted  until  the  purse  was  finished  ;  her  host  theo 
tested  its  merits,  in  the  presence  of  Nathalie,  to  whose  indeli 
ble  disgrace  it  was  found  totally  deficient.  Aunt  Eadegond* 
warmly  took  the  part  of  her  young  friend,  who,  as  she  always 
said,  ''  was  too  meek,  poor  little  thing  !  to  defend  herself  pro- 
perly  ;"  an  sssertion  which,  though  too  polite  to  contradict,  her 
nephew  always  heard  with  his  skeptical  smile. 

At  length  the  great  day  came,  and  a  lovely  day  it  Avas, — 
3lear,  bright,  and  sunny.  The  grounds  were  not  to  be  tlirown 
open  until  three  in  the  afternoon ;  and  at  three  precisely,  Na- 
thalie ran  down  to  the  drawing-room  to  find  the  Canoness, 
whom  she  had  vainly  sought  for  in  her  boudoir.  She  ^opened 
and  closed  the  door  with  a  sort  of  unnecessary  vivacity,  which 
characterized  her  least  motions,  and  came  running  in,  exclaim- 
ing, in  a  light,  cheerful  voice  : 

"  Are  you  here,  Marraine  ?  I  am  quite  ready." 

She  looked  around  :  the  Canoness  was  sitting  in  her  arm- 
chair, dressed  in  gray  silk,  and  with  a  profusion  of  rich  faces, 
that  gave  costliness  to  her  otherwise  simple  attire.  She  eyed 
the  young  girl  from  head  to  foot  with  a  critical  glance,  and 
smiled  approvingly.  Nathalie  was.  however,  very  simply  dress- 
ed in  a  clear  white  muslin,  whose  light  folds  fell  down  to  her 
feet ;  a  black  lace  mantilla,  worn  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and 
falling  down  on  her  neck,  and  black  net  mittens,  half-covering 
her  bare  arms,  gave  her  something  of  a  Spanish  air.  The  Ca- 
noness, pleased  to  see  her  looking  so  well,  completed  her  cos- 
tume by  presenting  her  with  an  elegant  little  fan,  to  be  worn 
suspended  at  the  wrist  by  a  slender  jet  chain. 

'•  Do  you  know  how  to  use  it?"  she  asked,  helping  her  to 
fasten  it  on. 

Nathalie  began  fanning  herself  with  a.ssumed  awkwardness. 

'•  No,  Petite,  not  so ; — look  at  me  ;"  and  taking  her  own 

>  fan,  she  used  it  with  slow  and  stately  grace  ;  for  Aunt  Rade- 

gonde,  having  lived  in  the  days  when  fanning  was   in  all  its 

glory,  piqued  herself  on  possessing  the  traditions  of  that  well 

nigh  lost  art. 

"  Yes,  it  is  already  better,"  she  added,  a.*;  Nathalie.   mad« 


206  NATIIAI.IS. 

another  attempt ;  '•  but  you  do  it  too  fast — try  again  ;  walk  up 
and  down  the  room,  fan  yourself,  and  look  as  Spanish  as  you 
can." 

Nathalie  laughed,  and  complied.  She  paced  the  drawing- 
room  to  and  fro,  assuming  that  peculiar  gait  which  is  said  to 
characterise  the  women  of  Spain,  and  fanning  herself  with 
southern  ease  and  vivacit}?-.  As  every  now  and  then  she 
glanced  over  her  shoulder  at  the  Canoness,  with  half-mocking, 
half-alluring  grace,  she  looked  like  one  of  those  lovely,  but  far 
too  earthly  saints,  such  as  the  old  Spanish  masters  delighted 
to  paint  from  living  models,  suddenly  stepped  down,  in  all  the 
warm  coloring  and  vividness  of  life,  from  her  gloomy  canva' 
and  tarnished  frame,  to  bewitch  poor  mortals  from  their  devo- 
tions. All  this  she  did  with  the  coquetry  innate  in  southern 
women,  a  coquetry  nothing  can  subdue — most  provoking  and 
yet  ever  irresistible,  because  frank,  genuine,  and  without  dis- 
guise. But  Nathalie  suddenly  stopped  short  in  her  promenad- 
ing ;  she  dropped  her  fan — it  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor, 
but  for  the  little  jet  chain — and  looked  transfixed.  She  had 
perceived  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  unseen  till  then,  standing  in 
the  embrasure  of  one  of  the  windows,  with  a  newspaper  in  his 
hand ;  lie  seemed  absorbed  in  his  reading ;  probably  he  had 
not  noticed  her — she  devoutly  hoped  so,  on  remembering  how 
freely  she  had  been  displaying  her  graces.  She  gave  the  Can- 
oness  a  look  of  silent  reproach. 

'•  Petite,"  suddenly  asked  Aunt  Radegonde,  withot  heeding 
this.  "  why  do  you  not  wear  the  velvet  I  gave  you  ?" 

"  I  have  lost  it,"  was  the  embarrassed  reply. 

"Lost  it!     When,  and  how?^' 

'•  Out — on  the  day  of  the  storm." 

*•  Petite,  how  could  the  storm  make  you  lose  it?" 

"'  My  hair  got  wet,  and  I  unfastened  it." 

"  Unfastened  your  hair  in  the  storm  !" 

"  Was  there  a  silver  edging  to  it  ?"  asked  Monsieur  de 
Sainville,  looking  up. 

"  Yes  ;  did  you  find  it,  Armand?" 

"I  found  such  a  velvet." 

"  Where  ?"  asked  his  inquisitive  aunt. 

Nathalie  gave  him  an  alarmed  look.  She  knew  where  the 
velvet  was  lost — where  she  had  uselessly  looked  for  it.  He 
smiled,  and  said,  quietly  : 

'•  Aunt,  I  fear  you  will  be  angry,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have 
been  using  your  gift  to  Mademoiselle  Montolicu  as  a  book- 
.  aiarkej". ajid  that  the  silver  has  become  tarnished  " 


NATHALIE  207 

"  Using  Petite's  velvet  as  a  book-markei  !"  iiidignautly  ex 
claimed  his  aunt. 

'•  "Well,  if  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  wishes  foi*  it -" 

"  Do  you  imagine  she  is  going  to  wear  your  book-marker?" 
hotly  interrupted  the  Ganoness. 

'•Aunt,  I  hear  the  music." 

"  And  you  want  us  to  leave  you  to  your  politics  V  she  pet- 
tishly said. 

He  silently  resumed  his  reading  as  they  left  the  room. 

"  Oh,  Marraine  !"  reproachfully  observed  Nathalie  in  the 
garden,  "  how  could  you  make  me  go  on  so  foolishly  whilst 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  there  V 

"  You  surely  do  not  think  he  took  any  notice  of  you?"  re 
plied  the  Ganoness,  innocently  looking  up  into  her  face. 

'•Well,  but  he  miGrht,"  answered  Nathalie,  coloring  a  lit- 
tie. 

Petite,  Armand  is  courteous  to  women,  as  a  gentleman 
should  be ;  but  though  he  notices  character,  I  acquit  him  of 
caring  for  either  the  dress  or  good  looks  of  young  girls.  See, 
how  he  never  knew  that  velvet  to  be  yours  !  A-propos,  where 
did  you  lose  it  V 

But  they  had  crossed  the  garden,  and  were  entering  the 
grounds,  which  were  already  filled  with  guests,  laughing, 
mirth,  and  music.     Nathalie  took  advantage  of  this  not  to  re- 

'■  Oh  !  moil  Dieit !  what  a  pretty  sight  1"  she  exclaimed, 
looking  and  feeling  delighted.  '•  How  gay  and  cheerful  those 
many-colored  dresses  look  on  the  green  !  What  a  lovely  af- 
ternoon !  Why  is  there  not  a  fete  every  day  in  the  year  ?  It 
is  so  pleasant  to  enjoy  one's  self  and  be  happy." 

"  Petite,  what  are  those  white  things  there  beyond  ?" 

"  Awnings,  Marraine, — snow-white  awnings,  spreading  in 
the  cool  green  shade,  with  here  and  there  a  warm  sun-ray  glid- 
ing through.  That  little  tent  standing  apart  is  for  the  refresh- 
ments. I  ran  out  just  before  they  opened  the  gates,  to  have  a 
peep :  it  looked  beautiful.  Fruits,  in  all  their  bloom  and 
beauty,  and  of  every  warm,  sunny  hue,  rose  in  pyramids,  in 
wide  porcelain  baskets,  and  looked  almost  too  fresh  and  exqui- 
fiits  to  touch." 

"  Were  there  any  cakes  or  creams  ?"  asked  the  Ganoness, 
who  had  a  spice  of  gourmandise  in  her  composition. 

'•  I  did  not  mind.  Cakes  and  creams  are  pretty,  but  not 
poetical." 


208  SATflALIE, 

■■  They  arc  a  great  deal  better  than  poetical,  Was  there 
any  nougat?  I  like  it.  Let  us  try  at  once  before  it  is  all 
gone.  Corao,  Petite,"  she  added,  Avith  an  air  of  Jl/iesse,  "  let 
us  go  to  that  pretty  tent,  take  some  nought  and  a  cream,  and 
cat  them  in  some  quiet,  shady  place,  far  from  all  this  noise  and 
bustle. 


!) 


Nathalie  gave  a  wistful  look  at  the  dancers  under  the  large 
awning  ;  but  there  was  nothing  selfish,  even  in  her  most  ardent 
longing  after  pleasure,  and,  without  a  murmur,  she  accompa- 
nied her  old  friend. 

All  the  bourgeois  of  Sainville  and  the  environs  had  come, 
with  their  wives  and  daughters,  to  see  the  grounds,  to  criticize 
what  they  saw,  and  enjoy  tliem.selves,  in  spite  of  all  that. 
There  were  also  a  few  ladies  from  the  surrounding  chcltcaux, 
and  plenty  of  gentlemen,  who  thought  the  young  bourgeoises 
very  pretty,  though  somewhat  prim  and  sedate. 

The  place  was  thronged  ;  yet,  thanks  to  the  admirable  in- 
stinct of  French  crowds,  there  was  not  the  least  confusion. 
Nathalie  and  her  companion  kept  somewhat  aloof,  and  followed 
a  shady  path,  vehence  they  could  see  all  that  passed  on  the 
lawn.  The  young  girl  several  times  caught  a  view  of  Madame 
Marceau,  who  sailed  through  the  crowd  with  majestic  grace, 
with  a  smile  for  some,  a  word  to  others,  and  to  all  kind  glances. 
She  felt  elated,  triumphant ;  and  looked  like  a  dark,  handsome 
queen,  imperious  even  in  her  very  blandest  courtesy.  Nathalie 
could  not  help  admiring  her,  and  observing  to  her  companion 
that  Madame  Marceau  was  a  very  fine  woman. 

"  Kather  too  tall,"  replied  the  Canoness.  "  After  all,  my 
dear,  it  is  we,  and  those  like  us,  that  are  tite  women." 

Nathalie  smiled  archly.  She  was  of  that  elegant  height 
to  wtiich  there  is  nothing  to  add,  but  from  which  there  is  also 
nothing  to  take  awa3^  Aunt  Kadegonde,  though  decidedly 
short,  labored  under  the  agreeable  delusion  that  her  height 
was  the  standard  height  of  woman,  and  used  the  pronoun  we 
with  perfect  confidence.  They  soon  reached  the  tent.  The 
Canoness  selected  her  favorite  dainties,  and  made  a  servant 
follow  them  with  a  tray,  until  they  reached  a  cool,  shady  nook, 
where  they  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  a  beech,  and  began,  as  she 
said,  ''  to  enjoy  themselves."  Nathalie  consoled  herself  by 
listening  to  the  music,  and  now  and  then  catching  a  glimpse  of 
the  dancers  through  the  trees. 

The  Canoness  liked  to  enjoy  good  things  slowly.  She  was 
long  about   the  nougat,   and   longer  still   about   the   crcama 


NATIIALIH.  209 

riiougli  Nathalie  reniuined  patient  and  cheerful,  she  could  not 
lielp  giving  an  occasional  look  at  tiie  distant  fete,  and  drawing 
to  it  the  attention  of  Aunt  Radegonde. 

"  Oh  !  Marraine  !"  she  exclaimed,  admiringly  ;  "  do  look  al 
those  dancers  there  beyond.  How  well  they  keep  time  to  the 
music,  and  sink  or  rise  together  !  Dancing  is  beautiful ;  I  ad- 
mire it;  I  have  always  admired  it;  there  is  sometliing  in  it 
that  reminds  one  of  astronomy." 

'•  Astronomy,  Petite  ?" 

"  Yes.  indeed,  for  I  half  believe  in  the  music  of  the  spheres; 
and  the  harmonious  motion  of  sun,  earth,  moon,  and  planets, 
with  their  myriads  of  worlds,  always  seemed  to  me  like  a  mag- 
nificent dance  on  a  grand  scale.  Comets  are  those  erratic 
dancers  whom  neither  time  nor  measure  can  keep  quiet,  and 
fixed  stars  are  holy  nuns,  who  have  looked  on  from  afar,  and 
who,  poor  things  !  must  still  look  on,  throughout  eternity." 

"  Well,  P&tite,  you  will  be  no  fixed  star  by-andby.  But  is 
it  not  pleasant  to  be  sitting  here  in  the  shade,  enjoying  our 
little  collation  ?'' 

Too  candid  to  say  '-yes,"  Nathalie  smiled,  and  the  Cano- 
ness,  who  had  some  of  the  latent  selfishness  which  often  ac- 
companies a  certain  species  of  good-nature,  interpreted  the 
smile  as  one  of  unequivocal  assent.  Their  "  little  collation" 
was  over,  but  she  felt  "  meditative  ;"  and  in  her  vocabulary,  to 
be  meditative  signified  to  be  drowsy.  They  were  sitting  on  a 
grassy  slope  at  the  foot  of  a  large  beech ;  she  drew  nearer  to 
the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  leaning  against  it,  prepared  to  medi- 
tate. At  first  Nathalie  felt  dismayed.  She  knew  that  the  re- 
flective moods  of  Aunt  Radegonde  were  long  and  deep :  but  it 
seemed  a  hopeless  case  :  and  so,  with  a  sigh  given  to  the  distant 
dancing,  she  sat  down  by  her  old  friend,  sn*othed  and  settled 
her  silk  skirts,  and  encircling  her  little  waist  with  one  arm, 
told  her  to  take  her  shoulder  as  a  pillow.  After  some  coquet- 
ting, the  Canoness  accepted,  and  laid  her  head  on  the  firm  and 
smooth  support  offered  to  her ;  she  looked  flushed,  and  com- 
plained of  the  heat ;  Nathalie  began  fanning  her  softly  ;  in  less 
than  a  minute  Aunt  Radegonde  was  fast  asleep. 

This  spot,  though  not  far  from  the  lawn,  was  both  shady 
and  retired,  and  no  one  came  to  disturb  the  two  ladies.  But 
after  some  minutes  had  elapsed,  a  gentleman  slowly  walked  up 
the  quiet  path  and  paused,  unseen  and  unheard,  within  a  few 
paces  of  the  beech-tree.  The  Canoness  still  slept  peacefully, 
but  her  head  had  half-glided  from  the  shoulder  to  the  bosom  of 


210  NATIIALllJ. 

the  yo'uug  girl,  who,  to  support  her  more  conveniently,  new 
leaned  on  one  elbow,  and  half  reclined  on  the  grassy  slope 
She  still  ftmned  her  old  friend,  but  slowly  and  abstractedly  ; 
it  was  evident  that  her  thoughts  were  elsewhere ;  every  now 
and  then  she  started  slightly  as  the  sounds  of  the  fete  reached 
her  ear,  and  her  right  foot,  half  peeping  from  the  ample  folds 
of  her  while  dress,  beat  time  to  the  distant  music.  As  they 
both  lay  there  together,  in  the  cool,  shady  light,  with  many  a 
queer  depth  and  many  a  winding  path  around  and  behind 
them,  he  who  gazed  remembered  a  long-forgotten  tale  of  his 
childhood,  and  thought  that  Nathalie  looked  not  unlike  the 
poor  Princess  sighing  for  freedom  with  all  its  joys,  whilst  the 
Canoness  answered  to  the  loving  but  jealous  little  fairy,  who 
.still  kept  her  bound  to  her  side  by  some  strange  magic  spell. 

'•  Mademoiselle  Nathalie,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  for 
it  was  he,  "I  thought  you  liked  dancing?" 

Nathalie  looked  up,  colored  a  little,  and  rfiising  herself 
without  awakening  the  Canoness,  replied,  with  'slight  erabar 
rassment,  "  that  she  liked  it,"  and  stooping  over  Aunt  Rade- 
gonde,  sTie  fanned  her  assiduously.  He  leaned  against  a  neigh- 
boring tree,  and  began  talkiiig  to  her.  Several  times  he  glanced 
impatiently  at  his  aunt,  and  once  proposed  to  waken  her.  Na- 
thalie refused,  philosophically  declaring  "she  did  not  care 
about  the  dancing."  He  smiled,  and  began  teazing  her  piti- 
lessly. Now  he  said,  how  merry  the  people  looked  as  he  passed 
through  them;  then  he  made  her  listen  to  the  music,  or  gravely 
requested  her  to  explain  the  various  figures  of  the  dance. 

"  Confess,"  he  said  at  length,  bending  forward  to  see 
her  averted  face,  "  confess  yor\  wish  my  aunt  would  awaken." 

'•  She  was  sure  she  did  not  care  a  bit ;"  but  in  her  vexation 
she  fanned  the  Ca»oness  very  fast. 

"  Mori  Dieu  !  what  a  breeze  !"  exclaimed  Aunt  Iladegonde, 
with  a  sudden  start. 

Nathalie  looked  confused  ;  but  he  was  not  minding  her. 

"  Aunt,"  he  seriously  said,  "  how  could  you  be  so  unkind  as 
to  deprive  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  of  the  dancing,  when  she 
is  so  fond  of  it?" 

The  conscience  of  Aunt  Radegonde  already  upbraided  her, 
and  she  took  this  remai'k  very  ill.  With  a  sudden  perverse- 
ness  of  judgment,  in  which  she  sometimes  indulged,  she  now^ 
affected  to  consider  every  thing  her  nephew  said  as  an  ofl'ence. 
not  to  herself,  but  to  Nathalie,  whom  she  defended  with  angry 
warmth. 


NATHALIE.  2 1  1 

"  Do  not  meddle  vs-itli  Petite,  Armand  ;  she  is  notbing  to 
j-ou." 

"  I  beg  your  pardori;  she  is  my  ward." 
.  "  Your  ward  !"' 

''  Yes,  indeed,  my  ward." 

"Armand.  take  my  advice,  do  not  meddle  with  young 
srirls — you  are  not  always  kind  to  them  ;  and  you,  Petite,  do 
not  mind  him,  he  only  w\ants  to  make  us  quarrel :  do  not  mind 
him,  but  kiss  me."  ^ 

She  stopped  short  in  the  path, — for  they  were  going 
towards  the  lawn — as  she  spoke,  and  giving  an  indignant  look 
at  her  nephew,  she  turned  towards  the  young  girl,  who  was 
preparing  to  comply  with  a  smile,  when  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
quietly  stepped  between  her  and  his  aunt,  took  her  arm  within 
his,  and  stooping  composedly,  laid  his  moustache  on  the  cheek 
Aunt  Radegonde  had  destined  to  the  rosy  lips  of-  Nathalie. 

"  Aunt,"  said  he,  with  a  smile,  "  the  quarrel  is  not  between 
you  and  Petite  " — the  word  seemed  to  slip  out  unawares, — but 
between  you  and  me ;  and  Ve  must  not  quarrel  to-day." 

A  genuine  caress  from  her  nephew  was  so  rare,  that  the 
Canoness  was  immediately  pacified.  They  soon  reached  the 
scene  of  the  fete,  and  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  though  not  without 
much  trouble  and  seeking  on  his  part,  found  them  convenient 
places.  There  neither  loud  music,  nor  crowding  dances  could 
s;ive  annoyance  ;  there  the  awning  and  sheltering  trees  over 
head  yielded  their  deepest  shade  ;  and  there,  too, — not  the  least 
important  point  for  Nathalie. — the  ladies  could  not  only  see 
the  dancing,  but  be  seen  themselves.  No  sooner  were  they 
seated,  than  numerous  gentlemen  gathered  around  Monsieur 
de  Sainville,  who  remained  standing  near  them  ;  and  invita- 
tions poured  thick  and  fast  on  the  pretty  girl  who  sat  by  his 
aunt.  Every  time  she  wrote  down  on  her  fan  the  name  of  a 
new  partner,  Nathalie  could  not  refrain  from  giving  her  host 
a  triumphant  smile,  destined  to  avenge  her  of  all  she  had  en- 
dured beneath  the  beech-tree. 

Dancing  may  be  delightful,  but  it  is  neither  amusing  to  look 
at.  nor  interesting  to  describe,  unless  in  extraordinary  cases. 
We  shall  not,  therefore,  expatiate  on  the  dancing,  which  afford- 
ed Natlialie  so  much  delight,  that  every  now  and  then 
in  the  midst  of  her  enjoyment,  she  could  not  help,  like  an 
■amused  child,  looking  over  her  shoulder  towards  the  spot 
where  she  had  left  her  old  friend,  upon  which  Aunt  Eadc- 
jfonde  never  failed  to  give  her  an  encouraging  nod  ;  and  her 


ZV2  NATHALIE. 

nephew  sometimes  paused,  iu  a  couversation,  to  catch  her  loo^ 
and  smile.  The  first  time,  however,  that  she  returned  to  her 
scat,  the  Canoness  seriously  advised  her  to  dance  with  lesa 
spirit  and  vivacity,  "  to  do  it  more  composedly,  in  short." 

"  I  cannot,"  laughingly  replied  the  young  girl. 

Here  she  felt  some  one  stooping  over  her  chair,  and  a  kind 
voice  whispered  in  her  car  : 

"  Do  not  try  :  but  enjoy  vourself  as  much  is  you  can,  my 
child."  '  ^ 

"What  are  you  .saying  to  hei,  Armand?"  asked  the  Can- 
oness. 

Nathalie  looked  up,  but  he  was  gone. 

The  next  time  that  Nathalie  returned  to  the  prudent  Aunt 
Radegonde,  she  found  her  engaged  in  a  close  conversation  wi(;h 
no  less  a  personage  than  the  Chevalier  Theodore  de  Meran- 
ville-Louville.  The  Chevalier  had  the  compassionate  nature 
of  the  sex  he  adored  ;  he  had  taken  three  tickets  for  the  lot- 
tery, and  purchased  a  card  of  admission  to  the  fete.  No  one, 
who  now  saw  him  with  snow-white*  cravat,  diamond  pin,  and, 
above  all,  with  an  air  so  gallant  and  degag/^,  could  have  sus- 
pected that  these  acts  of  munificence  entailed  a  week's  pinch- 
ing economy  on  the  kind-hearted  dancing-master.  He  cared 
little,  so  long  as  appearances — modern  honor — were  saved 
Amongst  the  dancci's  were  some  of  his  pupils  ;  he  wished  to 
watch  their  progress,  and  encourage  their  eftbrts  by  his  pre- 
sence. He  did  not  intend  dancing  himself:  he  did  not  think 
it  fair.  He  felt  in  the  case  of  a  fencing-master,  who  cannot 
fight  a  duel,  with  his  own  weapons  at  least.  Unable  to  obtain 
a  front  seat,  he  placed  himself  behind  the  Canoness  •  he  was 
not  tall,  and  she  was  short,  which  made  it  convenient.  But  at 
the  moment  when  he  was  most  intent  in  looking  over  her  head, 
a  tall  gentleman,  passing  by  with  hasty  strides,  pushed  him 
rather  rudely.  Aunt  liadegonde  gave  a  little  scream :  the 
Chevalier  remained  aghast.  He  had  been  pushed,  and  pushed 
against  a  lady  !  His  first  impulse — for  he  was  an  irascible 
little  man — was  to  rush  after  the  tall  gentleman,  and  chastise 
him  .on  the  instant ;  but  a  gentler  feeling  prevailed :  he  re- 
mained near  the  Canoness,  who  graciously  assured  him  she 
was  not  hurt.  '•  He  feared  this  assurance  proceeded  only  from 
her  extreme  goodness  ;"  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  gave  the  tall  gen- 
tleman a  look  that  said  so  plainly,  "  "We  shall  meet  again,  sir," 
that  the  Canoness,  knowing  to  what  dreadful  extremities  gen- 
tlemen jealous  of  their  honor  sometimes  allowed  themselves  to 


NATHALIE.  213 

be  oariled,  and  who,  from  the  ribbon  at  his  button-hole,  toot 
the  dancing-master  for  an  officer  retired  from  active  service, 
became  much  alarmed,  and  exerted  herself  to  soothe  his  ruffled 
spirit.  Need  we  say  that  the  tall  gentleman,  who  always 
remained  unconscious  of  the  offence  he  had  committed,  and 
the  risk  he  had  run.  was  forcotten  for  the  fascinatin;:'  Can- 
oness?  Their  innocent  flirtation  had  reached  its  highest  point 
of  flowery  speech  on  one  hand,  and  of  graceful  complaisance 
ou  the  other.  In  a  moment  of  entrainement.  the  Chevalier 
had  even  forgotten  his  scruples  so  far  as  to  solicit  the  Canoness 
to  favor  him  with  a  contre-danse,  and  she  had  declined  on  the 
score  of  being  a  Canoness ;  for,  though  some  Canonesses  did 
dance,  she  could  not  approve  of  it,  when  Nathahe  came  up,  and 
greeted  her  old  frend  with  smiling  welcome. 

This  recognition  led  to  an  increase  of  harmonj',  flowery 
speeches,  and  general  pleasantness.  The  Chevalier  made  ten 
der  inquiries  and  gave  minute  information.  Moi-al  and  intel- 
lectual cares  weighed  heavily  on  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  but 
strength  of  principle  supported  her  through  all.  Natlialie, 
who  felt  happy  and  forgiving,  smiled,  and  said  she  was  glad  to 
hear  it.  Days  of  pleasure  pass  rapidly ;  aud  when  she  saw 
the  sun  sinking  in  the  west,  and  the  dancers  and  groups  on  the 
lawn  thinning  gradually,  this  day  seemed  to  the  young  girl  to 
have  been  as  brief  and  delightful  as  a  dream.  The  Canoness, 
in  whose  monotonous  existence  the  episode  with  the  Chevalier 
formed  a  very  agreeable  incident,  was  beholding  with  equal 
regret  the  approach  of  evening,  when  a  cold  haughty  voice  ob- 
served by  her  side  : 

'•  Aunt,  is  it  not  growing  cool  ?" 

She  looked  round,  and  beheld  her  imperious  niece:  but  the 
presence  of  strangers  always  infused  a  strong  spirit  of  inde- 
pendence in  Aunt  Radegonde,  who  now  quietly  replied: 

"  Cool !  Rosalie  ;  I  think  it  close  ;"  and  she  fanned  herself 
very  coolly. 

Madame  Marceau  gave  her  an  astonished  look  ;  b^t  she 
blandly  said  : 

'•  My  dear  aunt,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  I  should 
•^pcak  to  you  in  private." 

"  I  cannot  leave  Petite." 

'■  Aunt,"  observed  Madame  Marceau,  with  her  grandest 
sir,  "  Mademoiselle  Montulieu,  or,  indeed,  any  lady,  is  suffi- 
ciently protected  by  the  mere  fact  of  being  here — the  place  is 
her  shield  " 


il4  natiialit;:. 

The  Canouess  rose,  but  slie  still  looked  uncomfortable  ;  tha 
polite  Chevalier  partly  relieved  her,  by  promising  to  remain 
at  Mademoiselle  Montolieu's  orders,  in  return  for  which  he  re- 
ceived her  warm  thanks,  and  one  of  Madame  Marceau's  coolest 
glances. 

When  Nathalie  returned  to  her  seat,  she  found  Madame 
Marceau  waiting  for  her  ;  her  dark  face  now  wore  a  look  of 
secret  triumph.  Without  giving  the  Chevalier  time  to  tpeak, 
she  said,  in  her  most  caressing  tone: 

''  You  must  be  tired.  Petite  ;  do  come  and  rest,  before 
dinner." 

She  drew  the  arm  of  the  young  girl  within  her  own,- and 
led  her  away  to  the  spot  where  a  raised  bench,  standing  be- 
neath a  separate  awning,  had  occasionally  received  her  during 
the  course  of  the  day.  Madame  de  Jussac,  who  had  only  just 
arrived,  half  lay  at  one  end  of  the  seat,  fanning  herself  with 
her  air  of  well-bred  ennui ;  she  welcomed  Nathalie  very  gra- 
ciously, and  made  room  for  her  by  her  side.  Madame  Marceau 
sat  down  at  the  other  end  of  the  bench. 

"  Have  you  been  amused  ?"  softly  asked  Madame  de  Jussac. 

"  Oh  !  very  much  indeed,'"  replied  Nathalie,  with  the  glow 
of  pleasure  still  on  her  cheek. 

"  How  well  this  Spanish  sort  of  thing  becomes  you  !"  ad- 
miringly said  Madame  Marceau  ;  "  does  it  not   ma  diere  V 

"  Before  this  evening,  I  never  thought  I  could  like  the 
Spanish  mantilla,"  quietly  replied  Madame  de  Jussac. 

The  young  girl  colored,  and  looked  wonderingly  from  one 
to  the  other  lady.  Madame  Marceau  gave  her  an  approving 
nod  ;  Madame  de  Jussac  smiled  blandly,  and  her  look  said. 
"  Yes,  indeed,  you  are  very  charming." 

"  You  liko  dancing?"  she  observed  aloud. 

'•  I  lovto  it !"  replied  Nathalie  with  sparkling  eyes 

"  And  when  will  you  have  another  dance  in  this  dull  place, 
miserably  dull  for  you  !"  sighed  Madame  Marceau. 

"  Miserably  dull,  madame  !  Never  since  I  left  Provence 
have  1  been  so  happy,  so  free  from  care,  as  here !" 

"  What  a  negative  happiness  ?"  kindly  objected  Madame 
Marceau.  "  In  the  summer  Sainville  can  do,  but  in  the  win- 
ter !  Just  imagine,  via  honne^''  she  added,  addressing  Ma- 
dame de  Jussac  across  Nathalie  ;  "  no  society,  nothing  but 
newspapers,  walks — when  there  is  neither  snow,  rain,  nor  wind: 
an  odd  game  of  piquet  with  my  aunt,  and  my  silent  brother 
walking  up  and  down  the  drawing-room,  evening  after  evening.'' 


.N.VTiiAT.ir: 


215 


•'  Lamentable  !'^  said  Madame  de  Jussae,  yawuing  slightly. 

''  I  should  like  it,"  quietly  observed  Nathalie. 

"  Like  it !"  sharply  echoed  Madame  Marceau. 

"  Yes,  is  there  not  a  dreamy  charm,  or  soothing  repose  in 
such  a  life  ?" 

"  T  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  thought  you  liked  pleasm-e  V 

"  Whilst  it  lasts  !  but  to-morrow  this  place  will  seem 
empty  ;  I  shall  miss  the  dance, — the  music, — the  faces, — the 
excitement." 

"  And  pleasures  should  succeed  one  another  too  rapidly  for 
.taction  to  have  time  to  come.  Quite  the  opinion  of  Madame 
de  Meris,  who  will  never  allow  this  depressing  reaction  to  come 
near  you  or  her  daughters." 

Madame  de  Jussae  spoke  very  quietly,  but  Nathalie  fas- 
tened on  her  such  a  look  of  perfect  astonishment,  that  the  lady 
opened  her  fine  blue  eyes  very  wide,  aud  half  raising  herself  up, 
exclaimed  with  something  approaching  vivacity: 

"  Is  this  an  indiscretion  ?  It  is  your  fault,  Rosalie,"  she 
added,  reproachfully  glancing  at  her  friend,  "  you  should  have 
checked  me.  Mafoi^  taut  2ns 2)our  vous."  She  sank  back  into 
her  old  attitude  with  indolent  and  careless  grace. 

What  did  all  this  mean?  Nathalie  turned  towards  Madanie 
Marceau  :  it  was  getting  dai-k,  but  their  looks  met. 

"Yes,"  she  calmly  said,  '-you  have  been  a  little  indiscreet. 
ma  bonne  ;  but  the  mischief  done  is  slight.     You  must  know, 
my  dear  child,"  she  added,  taking  and  softly  pressing  Nathalie's 
hand,  "that  we  do  not  think  the  mere  fact  of  having  you  here,  is 
a  suffici<^nt  compensation  for  the  painful  past.     No,  we  do  not 
think  so.     More  is  due  to  you.     Now  it  very  fortunately  hap- 
pens, that  the  Marquise  de  Meris  has  asked  her  sister-in-law, 
Madame  de  Jussae,  to  find  for  her  daughters — a  companion,  not 
a  guide  or  governess,  of  their  own  age  and  temper;  one  is  seven- 
teen ;  the  other  eighteen  ;  they  are  very  gay,  high-spirited  girls. 
You  will  do  admirably.     Your  sole  task,  my  dear,  will  be  to 
amuse  yourself  as  well  as  you  can  ;  a  task  that  becomes  you 
charmingly.     I  do  not  speak  of  the  other  matters  :  suiSce  it  to 
say,  that  Madame  de  Meris  has  a  princely  fortune,  and  spends 
it  with  princely  grace.      I  need  not  say  how  grieved  we  are  at 
parting  with  you,  but  we  sacrifice   our  own  feelings   to  your 
good.     The  manner  in  which  you  enjoyed  this  solitary  day  of 
pleasure  proves  to  us  that  it  would  be  cruel  and  selfish  to  de- 
tain you  here.     We  will  not  do  so.     You  will  see  Madame  de 
Meris  at  dinner  this  eveninq:.     She  spends  the  night  hero,  and 


216  NATIIAME. 

is  so  anxious  to  have  you,  that  she  talks  of  taking  yoa  away  ■with 
her  to-morrow.  But  I  scarcely  think  we  can  spare  you  so  soon.'' 
She  spoke  quite  affectionately.  A  slight  nervous  tremor  shook 
the  hand  Avhich  she  still  held,  but  the  young  girl  never  opened 
her  lips. 

"  Do  you  know  that  Madame  de  Meris  has  taken  a  box  at 
both  Operas  ?"  carelessly  said  Madame  de  Jussac. 

"  Indeed !"  observed  Madame  Marceau,  "  she  is  fond  of 
music  ?" 

'•  Passionately  !'' 

'•  How  fortunate  !     3Iademoiselle  Montolicu  singS"  charm- 

'•  Fortunate,  indeed!  Eliza  gives  such  exquisite  little  ama- 
teur concerts.  Uut  perhaps  Mademoiselle's  voice  is  a  soprano?" 
she  added  in  a  tone  of  apprehension. 

'•  No  !  it  is  a  very  fine  contralto  voice." 

Madame  de  Jussac  was  delighted.  A  soprano  voice  would 
have  been  good  ;  but  a  contralto  was  invaluable.  Madame  de 
Meris  had  been  longing  for  a  contralto.  After  dwelling  a  little 
longer  on  this  topic,  the  conversation  took  another  turn ;  tho 
balls  which  Madame  de  Meris  gave,  those  to  which  she  went, 
and  to  which  Nathalie  would  of  course  accompany  her  and  her 
daughters  ;  tlie  company  tliey  received, — the  delightful  Tues- 
days tbey  had, — the  magnificent  chateaux  they  possessed  in  va- 
rious provinces, — the  splendid  and  luxuriant  life  they  led,  were 
all  carelessly  mentioned  in  turn.  And  as  Madame  de  Jussac 
explained,  Madame  Marceau  admired,  and  Nathalie  sat  pale 
?nd  silent  between  both. 

"  So  Madame  de  Meris  is  as  gay  as  ever,"  quietly  observed 
Monsieur  de  Sainville,  who,  whilst  they  were  thus  engaged,  had 
come  up,  unperceived,  and  now  joined  in  the  conversation. 

There  was  a  brief  pause.  Nathalie  started  slightly,  and 
looked  up.  Madame  Marceau  cast  a  rapid  and  anxious  look  at 
her  brother  ;  he  stood  facing  her  at  the  other  end  of  the  seat, 
partly  leaning  over  the  indolent  Madame  de  Jussac.  who  merely 
turned  up  her  eyes,  to  observe,  languidly : 

"  Does  the  fan  annoy  you  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least."  " 

"  Ah  !  I  am  glad  of  it."  She  resumed  her  favorite  occupa- 
tion, one  moment  interrupted. 

The  heart  of  Nathalie  was  beating  fast :  her  color  came  and 
went ;  she  trembled  visibly.  It  was  well  for  her  that  evening 
xvas  closing  in  ;  but  the  two  ladies,  between  whom   she  sat, 


NATHALIE.  217 

might  have  braved  the  light  of  sun  or  lamp.     The  pride  of  the 
one,  the  composure  of  the  other,  defied  scrutiny. 

"  So  Madame  de  Meris  is  as  gay  as  ever  ?"  again  said 
Monsieur  de  Sainville,  speaking  in  precisely  the  same  tone  aa 
before. 

Madame  de  Jussac  smiled  assent. 

"  You  will  like  her  so  much,  chhre  Petite,"  calmly  observed 
Madame  Marceau,  turning  to  Nathalie. 

"  Then  when  she  said  %ve^  she  meant  that  he  knew  and  ap- 
proved this,"'  thought  Nathalie;  whilst  a  keen  pang  shot 
through  her  heart. 

"  She  means  to  spend  this  winter  in  Paris,  I  believe  V'  he 
quietly  continued. 

"  Yes,  in  Paris,"  replied  Madame  ie  Jussac,  with  perfect 
tranquillity. 

_ "  What  a  delightful  change  for   you,  Petite, — from  dull 
Sainville  to  gay  Paris  !"  exclaimed  Madame  Marceau. 

Nathalie  did  not  reply. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  change  ?"  asked  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 

Nathalie  made  an  eflfort  to  reply  that  she  liked  change  very 
much. 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  will  be  glad  to  see  Paris  ?"  he  con- 
tinued. 

She  supposed  so. 

"How  very  provoking!"  he  resumed,  with  his  peculiar 
smile.  "  I  am  grieved  to  be  the  bearer  of  painful  tidings  ;  but 
it  is  unfortunately  too  true  that  you  will  not  see  Paris  this 
winter." 

"  What !  Is  not  Madame  de  Meris  going  ?"  asked  Madame 
Marceau,  thrown  off  her  guard. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  she  is  going,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"  Then  why  may  not  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  see  Paris  this 
winter?"  inquired  his  sister  once  more,  quite  composed. 

"  Because  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  will  spend  this  winter 
at  Sainville." 

"  You  wish  it !"  exclaimed  Madame  Marceau,  with  a  fiery 
look  in  the  direction  of  Nathalie. 

^  "  I  protest  against  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  having  any 
voice  in  this  matter,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  with  pro- 
voking composure.  "What  chance  has  our  dull  home  against 
the  syren  city  %  Besides,  being  an  interested  party,  she  has 
no  right  to  decide  in  her  own  case." 

"  Then  you  are  judge  in  this  matter  "   bitterly  remarked 
10 


218  NATHALIE. 

Madame  Marceau,  applying  her   viuaigrette   as    she   spoke 
"  Judge  and  jury." 

"  No  ;  I  merely  represent  my  aunt,  who  bids  Mademoiselle 
Montolieu  leave  at  her  peril." 

Madame  Marceau  indignantly  fanned  herself  with  her 
pocket-handkerchief 

"  My  aunt  agreed  a  while  ago,"  she  said,  shortly. 

"  Yes  ;  but  she  has  changed  her  mind  since." 

"  She  will  reconsider  the  matter,  Armand." 

"  I  do  not  think  so." 

"  My  aunt  is  not  so  selfish  as  to  wish  to  immure  Mademoi- 
selle Montolieu  in  this  dull  place." 

"  Selfishness  is  so  ingenious  !  My  aunt  persists  in  declar- 
ing that  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  prefers  Sainville  to  Paris." 

"  Armand  !"  exclaimed  Madame  Marceau,  in  a  tone  of 
stately  surprise,  '•  you  cannot  mean  to  say  our  aunt  dreams  of 
detaining  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  against  her  will?" 

Without  answering  his  sister.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  turned 
towards  Nathalie,  and  remarked.^  in  his  tranquil  way: 

"  Do  not  trust  to  the  delusive  hopes  my  sister  holds  out. 
My  aunt  declares  you  have  passed  your  word  to  spend  the 
winter  here  with  her  ;  she  leaves  you  no  other  alternative,  save 
to  remain,  or  break  your  word  by  going.  As  to  changing  her 
fixed  resolve,  it  is  out  of  the  question  ; — -we  are  a  wilful  race  !" 

"  Nathalie  looked  up,  and  as  she  did  so,  she  detected  the 
glance  which  passed  between  Madame  Marceau  and  her  brother 
— angry  confusion  on  her  side ;  calm,  inflexible  will,  on  his. 
All  this  tacit  plotting,  counter-plotting,  and  polite  quarrelling, 
was  so  much  out  of  the  young  girl's  way,  so  foreign  to  any  thing 
which  had  yet  come  within  her  experience,  that  shp  knew  not 
how  to  act.  She  had  not  the  patience  and  worldly  knowledge 
that  can  guide  safely  through  the  treacherous  breakers  of  unde- 
fined conventionalities,  and  fearful  of  compromising  her  dignity 
and  her  pride,  she  had  for  once  the  wisdom  and  prudence  to 
remain  silent. 

"  Armand,"  observed  Madame  Marceau,  after  a  pause,  and 
now  speaking  very  calmly,  "  has  my  aunt  reflected  that  Madame 
de  Meris  has  also  a  claim  over  Mademoiselle  Montolieu — that 
she  will  be  hurt,  and,  above  all,  deeply  disappointed  ?" 

"  Be  quite  easy,  Rosalie,"  replied  her  brother,  with  slight 
Irony  ;  "I  took  it  on  myself  to  break  the  matter  to  Madame 
de  Meris ;  and  I  am  happy  to  say  she  bore  the  painful  tidings 
with  all  the  fortitude  of  a  woman  of  the  world  *' 


NATHAI.in.  219 

"  How  cool  it  is  o;ettiu£r,"  said  Madame  de  Jussae,  witli  a 
shiver.  "  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to 
let  me  take  your  arm?" 

She  rose  as  she  spoke :  he  silently  complied  with  the  lady's 
request.  Nathalie  watched  them  walking  away  with  a  beating 
heart.  Madame  Marceau  still  sat  near  her.  She  was  an  im- 
perious lady  ;  her  will  had  been  thwarted  ;  what  would  she  not 
say,  in  her  anger  ?  She  said  nothing,  but  watched  the  figures 
of  her  brother  and  Madame  de  Jussae,  as  they  slowly  vanished 
in  the  winding  path  they  had  taken.  When  they  were  no  longer 
to  be  seen,  she  rose,  with  majestic  pride,  wrapped  her  fine  figure 
in  her  magnificent  shawl,  and  brushed  past  the  young  girl,  in 
haughty  silence.  Nathalie  remained  alone.  She  felt  this  slight 
more  keenly  perhaps  than  any  thing  else ;  she  could  forgive  the 
scheme  for  sending  her  away — the  proud  lady  did  not  know  how 
little  she  cared  for  her  son — but  to  punish  and  slight  her 
because  that  scheme  happened  to  be  defeated,  was  cruel  and 
ungenerous.  She  had  sufi^ered  acutely  during  the  last  half- 
hour,  and  bowing  her  face  in  her  hands,  she  now  wept  silently. 
A  sound  near  her  made  her  raise  her  head  ;  she  looked  up,  and 
saw  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  who  had  returned,  and  now  sat  down 
by  her  side. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

'•  You  are  weeping,"  said  he  ;  "  why  so  ?" 

"  I  am  not  weeping,"  she  replied,  with  slight  equivocation. 

"  But  you  were :  the  tears  ai-e  still  on  your  cheeks.  VV^hy 
is  this  ?  No  reply  !  I  will  tell  you  why  you  weep :  it  is 
because  you  feel  you  have  not  been  well  used  ;  and,  indeed,  you 
have  not." 

Nathalie  looked  at  him.  His  face  was  severe,  but  she  felt 
its  severity  was  not  for  her. 

"  My  poor  child,"  he  resumed,  speaking  very  kindly,  "  do 
not  take  this  to  heart ;  if  my  sister  knew  even  what  I  know, 
she  would  not  act  thus.  I  once  mentioned  her  views  to  you, 
and  I  told  her  what  you  told  me  ;  but  I  perceive  she  labors 
under  the  impression,  that  no  woman  in  her  senses  can  remain 
indifibrent  to  the  love  and  admiration  of  her  son." 


B20  NATHALIK. 

Nathalie  smiled  scornfully  ;  he  saw  it,  and  continued  : 

"  Without  knowing  the  exact  state  of  youi*  feelings,  I  am, 
Devertheless,  inclined  to  believe  her  mistaken." 

There  was  a  pause ;  Nathalie  did  not  speak. 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  he  said,  very  seriously,  "  have 
you  a  great  objection  to  tell  me  what  you  refused  to  tell  Charles 
the  other  evening  ;  namely,  what  you  feel  for  him  ?" 

She  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  said,  at  length,  "  if  I  may  be  quite 
frank." 

"  As  frank  as  you  wish  :  it  is  your  friend,  not  the  uncle  of 
Charles,  who  listens." 

"  Sir,"  she  resumed,  ''  your  nephew  is  handsome,  I  do  not 
deny  it ;  there  is  talent  in  his  face.  I  believe  him  clever  ;  as 
your  nephew,  he  is  much  higher  in  station  than  any  man  who 
will  ever  think  of  marrying  me ;  he  probably  will  have  much 
wealth,  and  if  he  has  persecuted  me  with  his  intentions,  I 
cannot  but  confess  to  myself,  that  it  must  be  because  he  is 
much  in  love " 

She  stopped  short,  and  colored  deeply,  as  he  who  looked 
sould  see,  in  spite  of  the  obscurity. 

"  Well  ?"  he  said,  with  his  look  still  full  on  her  face. 

"You  will  not  think  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  strange?' 
she  asked,  hesitatingly. 

"  Strange  !"  he  echoed,  a  little  sadly ;  "  ray  poor  child,  in 
those  matters  I  think  nothing  strange." 

"  Well,  then,"  she  rejoined,  pressing  her  right  hand  to  her 
heart,  and  speaking  very  earnestly,  "  I  feel  here  in  a  manner  I 
understand  very  well,  but  cannot  explain,  that  I  shall  never 
love,  or  even  like  him." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Why  so  ?"  he  at  length  asked. 

''  Because,  without  imputing  evil  to  him,  I  do  not  think 
him  good." 

"  My  dear  child,  are  you  so  romantic  as  to  expect  perfec- 
tion ?" 

"  No  ;  for  I  am  far  from  being  perfect  myself" 

"  Besides,"  he  continued,  very  seriously,  "  remember  this 
great  truth — the  being  who  loves,  is  certainly,  for  the  time  that 
he  or  she  loves,  good." 

"  Sir,"  said  Nathalie,  quite  as  seriously,  "  do  you  think  that 
Monsieur  Marceau  feels  any  thing  like  genuine  tenderness  oi 
affection  for  me  ?     Do  you  think  that,  if  I  had  the  small-pox, 


natiialit:.  221 

for  instaucc,  lie  would  ever  care  to  see  me  again?  Because,  if 
you  think  so,"  slie  added,  after  a  brief  pause,  "  I  do  not." 

He  said  nothing  :  he  was  secretly  wondering  at  the  intuitive, 
but  unerring  tact  with  which  this  seemingly  heedless  girl  had 
arrived  at  the  distinction  between  passion  and  tenderness. 

"  I  thank  you  truly  for  your  frankness  and  confidence,"  he 
observed  at  length.  "  If  I  asked  this  question,  it  was,  with 
your  permission,  to  satisfy  my  sister,  without  telling  her  that 
which  it  would  hurt  her  maternal  feelings  to  hear, — that  hei 
fears  were  wholly  groundless." 

"  You  may  do,  sir,  as  you  wish." 

'•  And  you  will  speud  the  winter  here?' 

She  shook  her  head  gravely. 

"  No,  sir ;  I  have  had  too  clear  a  proof  to-night  of  what  I 
suspected,  before  I  had  been  two  days  here — namely,  that  I 
was  not  in  the  house  of  Madame  Marceau,  but  in  that  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Saiuvillc  ;  not  with  her  wnll,  but  through  his." 

"And  is  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  too  proud  to  allow  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville  the  pleasure  of  considering  her  his  guest  ?" 
he  aiskcd  very  kindly. 

'•  Oh,  no  ;  not  too  proud,"  replied  the  poor  girl,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes  and  in  her  voice  ;  "  it  is  not  fair  to  call  that  pride." 

She  was  evidently  much  depressed.  Pier  head  drooped  on 
her  bosom,  her  hands  lay  clasped  upon  her  lap  ;  she  looked 
pale  in  the  light  of  the  rising  moon.  There  was  sadness  even 
in  her  attitude.  He  remembered  her  in  the  joyous  mood  of  the 
afternoon,  gay,  smiling,  and  bright ;  with  her  eyes  sparkling, 
and  her  cheeks  flushed  from  the  excitement  of  the  dance  :  the 
contrast  pained  him. 

"  What  is  it  then  V  he  asked  soothingly. 

'•  The  sense  of  my  own  dignity,  which  I  am  alone  to  guard," 
slie  firmly  replied,  looking  up. 

'•  I  respect  your  scruples ;  but  if  my  sister,  herself,  asks 
you  to  stay,  will  you  not  do  so  V 

Nathalie  shook  her  head  again. 

"  I  know,  sir,  that  you  have  a  strong  will,  and  that  every 
one  in  this  house  obeys  it,  but  I  do  not  wish  it  to  be  exercised 
for  me." — He  smiled  and  did  not  seem  offended  at  the  impu- 
tation of  wilfulness, — far  from  it ;  but  he  quietly  assured  her, 
that  as  soon  as  he  could  explain  the  matter  to  her,  Madame 
Marceau  would  of  her  own  accord  offer  to  repair  her  injustice; 
and  he  pledged  his  word  to  the  young  girl,  not  to  insist  on  her 
remaining  unless  it  happened  exactly  so.  Still  Nathalie  did 
not  seem  convinced. 


222  NATHALIE. 

'•^  Alions^^  he  observed  ■with  a  dissatisfied  smile,  "I  perceive 
Sainville  is  dull,  and  Paris  irresistible." 

'•  Indeed  I  do  not  care  for  Paris  !"  quickly  replied  Natha- 
lie, pained  at  this  reproach. 

He  looked  incredulous. 

"  Upon  my  word  !"  she  said,  with  ingenuous  earnestness. 

"  What !  you  do  not  care  for  a  life  of  pleasure,  of  balls, 
dances,  plays,  and  so  forth  ?"  he  inquired  with  his  keen  look. 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not.     Besides,  there  is  dancing  here  also." 

'■'■  Then,  my  child,"  he  remarked,  in  his  usual  tone,  "  do  not 
think  of  going  with  Madame  de  Meris.  She  is  gay,  thought- 
less ;  unfit  to  protect  any  young  girl." 

"  Has  she  not  daughters,  sir  ?" 

"  Two,  on  whom  nature  has  bestowed  an  excellent  safe- 
guard, and  to  whom  fortune  has  moreover  granted  the  protec- 
tion of  largo  dowries." 

"  I  can  protect  myself."  returned  Nathalie  with  some  pride. 

"  From  wrong,  I  believe  you ;  from  annoyance,  allow  me 
to  doubt  it.  Besides,  for  reasons  not  oiFensive  to  you,  but 
useless  to  mention,  I  am  convinced  that  Madame  de  Meris, 
willing  to  oblige  my  sister  as  she  is,  would  very  soon  regret 
having  accepted  you  as  the  companion  of  her  daughters." 

"  And  why  so?"  asked  Nathalie,  rather  offended. 

"  Because,"  he  replied,  with  a  smile,  "  they  are  very  plain." 

'•  Ah  !"  she  said,  a  little  disconcerted. 

"  Well."  he  resumed,  "have  I  convinced  you?" 

"  I  have  another  objection." 

"  Another  !" 

"  Yes,  sir,  another.  Why  should  I  stay  here,  and  by  my 
presence,  deprive  Madame  Marccau  of  her  son's  society  ?" 

"  I  might  answer  to  this,  that  as  you  are  innocent  and  as 
he  is  culpable,  it  is  only  just  he  should  suffer ;  but  you  woald 
raise  some  other  objection.  Suffice  it  then  to  mention,  that 
my  sister  is  ambitious  for  her  son  ;  that  she  is  very  glad  of  a 
pretence  to  keep  him  away  at  his  studies ;  and  that  to  prevent 
him  from  losing  his  time  in  the  province,  she  intends  spend- 
ing part  of  the  winter  in  Paris,  Have  you  any  other  objec- 
tion ?" 

Nathalie  looked  at  him  very  seriously. 

"  Sir,"  she  said,  "  I  will  abide  by  your  decision,  for  I  have 
faith  in  your  judgment  and  good  feeling.  But  if  you  had  a 
'laughter,  situated  as  I  am.  would  you  as  her  father " 

"  Pray  do  not  use  that  comparison,"  he  interrupted,  looking 


NATHALIE.  223 

tip  and  unable  to  repress  a  smile,  '•  I  am  an  old  bachelor ;  the 
fatherly  instinct  is  most  imperfectly  developed  in  me  ;  I  give 
you  my  word  I  have  no  idea  how,  as  your  father,  I  would,  or 
ought  to  behave  in  such  a  matter." 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  had  a  sister,"  resumed  Nathalie, 
slightly  disconcerted. 

"  I  have  a  sister,"  he  replied,  with  some  gloom. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  understand,"  very  hastily  rejoined 
Nathalie,  rising  as  she  spoke. 

"  You  impatient  child,  do  you  not  understand  at  all,"  said 
he  gently,  compelling  her  to  resume  her  seat ;  '•  you  take  fire 
on  a  word.  Little  credit  as  you  give  me  for  feeling,  give  me 
credit  for  common  politeness.  I  disclaimed  your  comparison, 
because  it  rested  on  an  impossible  relationship.  Have  you 
then  forgotten  that  I  am  your  guardian,  and  that  of  your  own 
accord  you  once  called  me  your  friend  ?  Why  did  you  not 
appeal  to  the  friend  and  guardian  ?" 

"  And  what  would  his  answer  have  been  ?"  asked  Nathalie, 
looking  up. 

''  Kemain  !" 

"  Then  I  will,"  she  exclaimed,  yielding  to  an  irresistible 
impulse,  '•  for  T  believe,  sir,  that  you  are  my  friend  ;  yes,  my 
friend  indeed  !" 

In  a  fit  of  southern  fervor  she  shook  his  hand  and  raised 
it  so  that  it  touched  her  lips,  but  she  dropped  it  almost  imme- 
diately, and  rose  from  the  seat  pale  and  frightened  at  her  own 
indiscretion.  All  that  Mademoiselle  Dantin  had  ever  urged 
on  feminine  propriety  rushed  back  to  her  mind  to  alarm  her ; 
as  for  any  other  feeling,  save  one  of  pure  and  grateful  emotion, 
such  as  a  very  child  might  have  felt,  her  conscience  acquitted 
her  of  it,  and  though  she  was  much  mortified,  she  felt  no 
Bhame. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  had  not  moved,  and  as  he  sat  in  the 
shade  she  could  not  read  the  expression  of  his  features.  There 
was  a  brief  and  embarrassed  pause. 

'"  I  see  you  wish  to  go  in,"  he  quietly  observed,  rising,  and 
taking  her  arm  as  he  spoke. 

Nathalie  did  not  answer,  but,  looking  around  her,  she  per- 
ceived that  the  grounds  were  almost  solitary,  and  felt  somewhat 
surprised  at  not  having  noticed  this  before.  They  walked 
home  in  profound  silence.  In  her  first  terror  of  being  mis- 
construed, she  longed  to  explain,  but  her  pride  revolted 
against  it. 


224  NATHALIE. 

"  No,"  she  thought,  "  if  he  has  so  little  tact  and  delicacj 
as  not  to  perceive  that  I  was  only  foolish,  let  him  think  all  he 
likes." 

They  had  entered  the  chateau,  and  stood  in  the  lighted 
hall,  as  she  came  to  this  conclusion.  She  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  looking  up  into  his  face  as  they  parted.  He 
seemed  so  calm  and  friendly,  that  a  weight  was  immediately 
removed  from  her  mind.  She  felt  that  she  had  not  been  mis- 
understood;  that  her  fear  was  an  act  of  injustice  to  herself, 
above  all,  of  injustice  to  him. 

She  went  up  to  her  room,  and  abstained  from  appearing  at 
the  late  and  large  dinner  which  was  to  precede  the  lottery. 
She  sat  near  her  open  window,  thinking,  when  a  gentle  tap  at 
her  room  door  roused  her  from  her  abstraction.  It  was  Aunt 
Radegonde  come  to  fetch  her.  She  began  by  dwelling  patheti- 
cally on  the  shock  Nathalie's  projected  departure  had  given 
her. 

'•  Oh  !  Petite,"  she  concluded,  with  a  sigh,  "how  glad  I  am 
that  Armand  did  interfere  !  It  is  very  selfish,  of  course,  for 
me  to  wish  you  to  remain  here,  and  so  Rosalie  told  me ;  still  I 
cannot  help  it.  I  cannot  help  being  delighted  at  your  staying, 
and  am  very  grateful  to  Armand,  who,  for  my  sake,  made  it  all 
right  again.  Well,  are  you  coming  ?  the  lottery  has  already 
begun." 

Nathalie  pleaded  a  headache. 

"  We  shall  keep  out  of  the  noise  in  the  little  back  drawing- 
room  ;  the  folding-doors  have  been  taken  down,  and  there  is  a 
handsome  velvet  drapery  instead.  Armand  said  it  would  be 
better  for  us  to  stay  there,  and  that  he  would  take  care  of  my 
tickets  for  me.  You  must  come.  He  is  quite  vexed  because 
you  were  not  present  at  the  dinner.  He  sent  me  up  to  fetch 
you,  saying,  he  knew  you  would  not  mind  a  servant's  message, 
but  that  you  could  not  refuse  me.  He  added  that  he,  your 
guardian,  summoned  you  to  make  your  appearance  below  ;  and 
though  I  think  myself  it  is  rather  ridiculous  for  him  to  persist 
in  claiming  you  as  his  ward,  still  he  has  been  so  good  to-day, 
that  we  must  indulge  him  a  little.  Just  take  ofi"  that  mantilla, 
if  you  like  ;  your  dress  will  do  very  well." 

Nathalie  at  length  yielded  to  her  arguments,  and  accompa- 
nied her  down  stairs.  Madame  Marceau  had  invited  about 
forty  or  fifty  select  guests,  to  be  present  at  the  drawing  of  the 
letter}'.  They  were  chiefly  persons  whose  political  connections 
and  influence  might  be  useful  to  her  brother  in  the  approaching 


NATHALIE.  22S 

elections.  A  few  belonged  to  the  provincial  aristocracy  ;  by 
far  the  greater  number  were  of  the  wealthy  bourgeoisie.  After 
skilfully  agitating  amongst  their  inferior  brethren  in  the  after- 
noon's f^te,  she  had  reserved  these  for  the  evening's  seductions. 
About  twenty  of  the  most  influential  had  come  to  dinner.  The 
saloon  was  brilliantly  lit  up,  and  as  there  were  many  well- 
dressed  women,  it  looked  gay  and  pretty  ;  but  Madame  Mar- 
ceau  had  done  every  thing  to  avoid  eclat ;  she  wished  this  to 
appear  what  slie  repeatedly  called  it, — "a  little  domestic  fetpe 
and  familiar    reunion." 

The  lottery  was  already  far  advanced  when  the  two  ladies 
entered.  At  one  end  of  the  drawing-room,  stood  a  small  table, 
with  a  silver  urn,  from  which  a  young  and  pretty  girl,  the 
daughter  of  the  Prefect,  gravely  drew  forth,  one  after  another, 
small  scrolls  of  paper,  rolled  like  ancient  papyrus  manuscripts  ; 
on  each  of  these  scrolls  was  inscribed  the  number  of  a  ticket, 
to  which  capricious  Fortune  sometimes  adjudged  a  prize,  and 
oftener  a  blank.  Another  table,  much  larger,  stood  facing  this  ; 
it  was  covered  with  the  prizes,  which  the  elder  sister  of  the  first 
young  girl  graciously  distributed  to  the  winners.  Both  tables 
were  surrounded  by  animated  groups,  talking  and  laughing 
with  French  vivacity.  Nathalie  only  caught  a  glimpse  of  this 
scene,  through  which  the  Canoncss  hurried  her. 

"  It  is  much  pleasanter  here, is  it  not?"  she  observed,  draw- 
ing aside  the  velvet  drapery,  which  fell  once  more  in  dark  and 
heavy  folds  behind  them. 

The  little  saloon  had  been  tastily  fitted  up  as  a  sort  of  cool 
retreat,  which  Madame  Marceau  had  destined  to  her  political 
tetes-d-tetes  ;  little  anticipating  that  it  would  be  occupied  by 
her  aunt  and  Nathalie.  It  was  redolent  with  the  fragrance  of 
exquisite  flowers  and  shrubs  ;  a  solitary  lamp,  suspended  from 
the  ceiling,  shed  around  a  pale,  trembling  ray,  which  scarcely 
dispelled  the  mysterious  twilight  of  the  place.  Madame  Mar- 
ceau and  her  friend  sat  on  a  low  divan  ;  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
stood  near  them.  No  one  else  was  present.  On  perceiving 
Nathalie,  Madame  Marceau  called  up  her  most  gracious  smile, 
rose,  went  up  to  her  and  took  her  hand. 

'•  Chere  Petite,"  she  said,  "  you  look  pale.  Are  you  tired  ? 
Do  you  know,  I  think  you  are  too  delicate  a  great  deal  for  the 
excitement  of  pleasure  ?" 

"  If  you  had  seen  her  dancing,  you  would  not  think  so,"  de^ 
ciaively  interrupted  Aimt  Rauegonde. 
10* 


226  WATHALIK. 

Madame  Marceau  gave  her  aunt  a  significant  look ;  but 
the  Canoness  neither  took  nor  understood  the  hint. 

"  Indeed,  aunt,"  resumed  the  lady.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu 
is  more  delicate  than  you  think ;  and  I  begin  to  imagine  that 
the  country  air  is  not  only  quite  necessary  to  her,  but  that 
Paris " 

^'  I  tell  you  she  is  not  delicate  at  all,"  again  interrupted 
Aunt  Radegonde,  now  speaking  rather  indignantly. 

Madame  Marceau  saw  her  aunt  would  spoil  all,  if  she  con- 
tinued to  dwell  on  this  theme ;  she  therefore  observed,  in  a 
wholly  altered  tone,  and  slightly  drawing  herself  up  to  speak 
with  suitable  dignity : 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  we  are  friends  ;  indeed,  we  have 
never  ceased  to  be  so.  Yes,"  she  continued,  lowering  her  voice, 
and  speaking  with  affected  discretion,  but  not  so  low  as  not  to 
be  heard  from  the  divan,  ''  I  feel  now  that  we  are  friends,  be- 
yond the  power  of  misunderstanding.  I  am  sorry  not  to  have 
sought  myself  the  clear  explanation  which  my  brother,  with  his 
prompt  judgment,  perceived  to  be  necessary.  I  need  not  tell 
you  how  I  admire  your  resolve, — the  result  of  a  prudence  and 
high  principle  almost  above  your  years.  Still  less  need  I  tell 
you  how  sincerely  I  hope  our  dull  house  may  long  be  youi 
home." 

She  pressed  her  hand,  beckoned  to  her  friend,  and  left  the 
place.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  waited  until  the  velvet  drapery 
had  fallen  upon  them  to  approach  Nathalie,  and  say,  in  a  low 
tone  : 

"  Are  you  content  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am." 

He  left  them. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  had  taken  an  early  opportunity  to 
inform  his  sister  that  Nathalie  had  pledged  herself  never  to  be- 
come the  wife  of  Charles  Marceau.  More  than  this  he  had  not 
said ;  nor  had  she  asked  to  know  more.  Satisfied  with  this 
assurance,  and  anxious  to  please  her  brother,  with  whom  she 
felt  she  had  already  ventured  farther  than  was  either  prudent 
or  expedient,  Madame  Marceau  had  immediately  exclaimed 
'■  that  she  felt  the  greatest  regard  for  Mademoiselle  Montolieu. 
and  would,  in  her  dear  Armand's  presence,  ask  her  to  stay. 
To  which  her  dear  Armand,  without  thinking  it  necessary  to  in- 
form her  that  she  had  unconsciously  suggested  the  only 
condition  on  which  Nathalie  would  now  remain,  had  quietly 
replied  : 


i; 


NATHALIE.  227 

"Indeed,  Rosalie,  you  will  please,  me  very  much  by  do- 
ing so." 

"Please  him!  Why  had  he  not  said  so  at  once?  Was 
there  any  thing  she  wished  more  than  to  please  him?  But  he 
was  so  unkind  ;  he  would  not  let  her  know  what  pleased  him  ! 
She  guessed  sometimes  " — this  was  a  hint  for  the  elections — 
"  and  other  times  she  failed  ;  all  because  he  was  so  reserved 
with  his  poor  Rosalie." 

Before,  however,  making  this  concession,  Madame  Marceau 
had  prudently  dropped  a  few  hints  to  her  friend.  She  had 
feelingly  deplored  the  hardships  of  certain  positions,  which,  in 
violence  to  the  heart's  better  feelings,  often  compelled  one  to 
act  with  seeming  unkindness.  When  a  young  man  of  fortune 
and  family  took  a  fancy  to  a  pretty  face,  it  was  very  diiEcult  to 
guess  that  the  individual  thus  distinguished  had  sufficient 
humility  and  principle  not  to  be  dazzled,  and  mistake  what  was 
only  a  passing  caprice  for  a"  serious  attachment ;  and  hard  to 
imagine  that,  on  being  jiroperly  appealed  to,  this  individual 
could  solemnly  pledge  herself  never  to  enter  into  a  secret  or 
open  engagement  with  the  infatuated  youth.  Madame  de 
Jussac,  who  heard  her  with  a  smile,  assured  her  that  she  was 
not  so  much  astonished  ;  she  had  heard  of  such  things,  and 
found  nothing  incredible  in  the  present  case.  But  Madame 
Marceau,  resolved  she  should  be  satisfied  that  it  was  really  so, 
had  taken  care  to  make  her  assist  at  the  explanation,  which  she 
had  worded  so  that  it  might  please  both  her  brother  and  tlie 
mother  of  her  in  whom  she  still  hoped  to  see  the  futui'e  bride 
of  Charles.  For  though  Nathalie  was  to  spend  this  winter  in 
Sainville,  Madame  Marceau  by  no  means  contemplated  her 
prolonged  sojourn  as  either  desirable  or  proper,  and  did,  not 
apprehend  the  want  of  a  convenient  pretence,  whenever  the 
time  arrived,  for  her  to  go  in  earnest. 

Aunt  Radegonde  did  not  look  much  pleased  when  her 
nephew  left  them  to  the  seclusion  of  the  little  saloon.  "  He 
might  have  stayed ;  but,  thank  heaven,  they  could  do  without 
him, — and  without  any  one  else,  too.  This  was  a  nice  quiet 
place;  yet,  if  Nathalie  preferred  the  drawing-room,  they  would 
go  in." 

Nathalie  assured  her  that  she  preferred  this  retired  spot  ; 
they  remained ;  few  came  to  disturb  their  seclusion,  or  paid  them 
more  than  passing  visits.  The  Canoness  drew  the  divan  near  the 
drapery,  and  slightly  drawing  this  aside  fastened  it,  so  that  whilst 
remaining  in  its  deep  shadow  they  could  see  and  hear  almost  all 


228  NATHALIE. 

that  passed  in  the  drawing-room.  Nathalie  looked  and  listened 
but  she  could  fix  her  attention  on  nothing.  Whilst  the  childish 
voice  of  the  young  girl  near  the  silver  urn  read  scroll  after  scroll, 
and  exclamations  of  affected  triumph,  and  still  more  affected 
disappointment,  greeted  her  announcements  of  gain  or  loss, 
her  memory  wandered  back  to  the  incidents  of  the  afternoon. 
Now  she  saw  herself  lying  under  the  beech-tree ;  then  she 
heard  once  more  the  music  of  the  dance,  or  suddenly  found 
herself  sitting  alone  with  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  and  hearing 
his  melancholy  voice  say  to  her,  "  Strange  !  in  those  matters, 
I  thing  nothing  strange." ,  She  looked  for  him  amongst  the 
guests  ;  he  sat  by  Madame  de  Jussac  ;  not  a  word  of  their  con- 
versation reached  her  ear ;  but  though  they  smiled,  she  knew 
it  was  not  friendly ;  in  vain  the  lady  seemed  to  pour  forth  her 
softest  blandishments  ;  something  stern  in  his  face,  which  Na- 
thalie knew  very  well,  remained  still  to  show  that  he  disowned 
her  power.  From  them,  Nathalie's  glance  wandered  to  other 
groups  ;  but  her  head  throbbed  and  burned ;  the  glaring  light 
annoyed  her  ;  she  soon  drew  back  into  the  shade,  and  heard, 
without  heeding,  the  remarks  of  Aunt  Radegonde,  blending 
with  the  hum  of  the  many  conversations  in  the  drawing-room. 
A-bout  an  hour  had  thus  elapsed,  when  the  Canoness  ex- 
claimed : 

"  The  lottery  is  over,  and  here  is  Armand  coming,  with 
our  prizes." 

The  divan  was  immediately  restored  to  its  former  place,  as 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  entered,  followed  by  a  servant,  carrying 
a  small  tray,  on  which  appeared  the  prizes,  by  no  means  nu- 
merous. The  servant  placed  the  tray  on  a  small  table  near  the 
divan,  and  retired. 

^'  Aunt,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  opening  his  pocket- 
book,  "  I  took  charge  of  your  fifteen  tickets — I  also  attended 
to  my  own — forty  in  all.  Less  prudent  than  you,  I  allowed 
myself  to  be  victimized  to  the  extent  of  twenty-five  tickets,  at 
the  price  of  two  francs  each.  Well,  aunt,  my  deliberate  con- 
clusion is,  that  of  all  the  cheating  transactions  I  ever  witness- 
ed, and  I  have  seen  a  good  many,  a  charitable  lottery  is  the 
most  barefaced." 

"  What !  Armand  ;  was  there  not  fair  play?" 

"  No.  I  acquit  the  individuals,  but  I  accuse  the  system  ; 
it  is  founded,  from  beginning  to  end,  on  victimizing,  which  falla 
chiefly  on  my  unfortunate  sex.  Ladies  get  up  these  things,  and 
seduce  their  male  friends  into  the  purchase  of  tickets,  for  which 


KATIIALIE.  229 

they  •work  prizes,  wbicli  being  all  essentially  feminine  articles, 
are  useless  when  won,  and  therefore  return  to  them  as  presents; 
we  pay  and  do  the  real  charity — always  deluded  into  the  belief 
that  we  shall  get  our  money's  worth — they  obtain  all  the 
praise." 

"  Arraand,"  impatiently  said  his  aunt,  "  do  tell  us  what  we 
have  got?     The  first  five  tickets  are  for  Petite." 

"  The  first  five  tickets  were  blanks." 

"  Poor  child  !"  observed  the  Canoness,  turning  towards 
Nathalie;  "you  shall  share  my  better  fortune." 

"  The  next  ten  tickets  obtained  one  prize." 

"  One  !  only  one  !  and  what  was  it?'* 

"  A  cigar-case.     Here  it  is." 

"  A  cigar-case  !"  exclaimed  Aunt  Kadegoude  ;  '•  and  what 
am  I  to  do  with  a  cigar-case  !" 

"  Any  thing  you  like,  aunt,  provided  you  do  not  oS'er  it  to 
me." 

"  "Well,  Armand,  what  did  your  twenty-five  tickets  get  ?" 

"  Three  prizes,  essentially  feminine,  of  course,  and  one  of 
them  my  own  gift  to  the  lottery.  Here  is  a  purse,  aunt,  which 
may  not  be  of  much  use  to  you,  but  which  you  will  value  for 
the  sake  of  the  maker." 

He  dropped  Nathalie's  ridiculed  purse  in  his  aunt's  lap,  as 
he  spoke. 

"  Have  you  got  nothing  for  Petite,  Armand  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  "this  pair  of  Chinese  slippers  ;  I  can  warrant  them 
genuine,  for  I  brought  them  from  Canton  myself." 

Nathalie  thanked  him,  and  looked  delighted. 

"  What  a  pity  they  are  so  small,"  said  the  Canoness,  taking 
up  one  of  the  slippers. 

"  They  are  not  too  small,"  promptly  observed  her  nephew. 

"  Indeed  they  are,  Armand." 

"  I  assure  you,  aunt,  they  are  not." 

"  How  can  you  tell  ?" 

"  I  know  they  are  not  too  small." 

"  I  never  saw  any  one  so  dogmatic,"  impatiently  said  the 
Canoness ;  "  but  I  am  determined  you  shall  not  always  have 
your  way." 

Before  Nathalie  could  guess  what  she  was  going  to  do,  or 
oppose,  she  put  the  slipper  on  the  young  girl's  foot ;  she  re- 
mained mute — it  fitted. 

"Well,  aunt?"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainviile,  with  a  smile. 
MWell — what  about    it?"  sharply  asked  his  aunt;    '^  Po 


S30  NATHALIE. 

tite    does   not    want   your   ugly    Chinese   things ;  take    them 
back." 

She  pushed  the  remaining  slipper  over  to  him ;  but  Natha- 
lie quickly  snatched  it  back,  on  perceiving  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville  extending  his  hand  to  take  it,  and  deliberately  put  it  on ; 
then  looked  at  her  feet  with  all  the  admiration  of  a  child  for 
its  new  toy. 

"  Take  them  off,  Petite,"  said  the  Canoness :  '•  ugly  things, 
with  their  turned-up  toes  !" 

Nathalie  laughed,  said  they  were  original,  and  that  she 
would  wear  them.  The  remonstrances  of  the  Canoness  in- 
duced her  to  take  them  off,  but  she  persisted  in  keeping  them. 
Aunt  Radegonde,  who  was  either  domineered  over,  or  domi- 
neering, looked  peevish,  until  she  remembered  they  had  not 
yet  seen  the  remaining  prize.  He  produced  it,  a  plain  brown 
silk  purse,  which  he  intended  keeping,  because  it  was  strong 
and  safe.  The  Canoness  looked  triumphant:  it  was  she  who 
had  begun  that  purse,  and  Petite  who  had  finished  it,  "  so  that 
Monsieur  Armand,  after  all  his  ridiculing,  was  glad  to  have 
something  of  their  manufacture."  Monsieur  Armand  indulged 
his  aunt  in  her  triumph,  and  sat  down  by  her  side.  She  re- 
minded him  once  that  he  ought  to  appear  in  the  drawing- 
room  ;  but  he  quietly  replied,  "  I  am  not  host  to-day — I  am 
guest ;  I  shall  stay  here  :  I  prefer  it." 

He  remained,  and  entered  into  a  conversation  with  his 
aunt ;  but  Nathalie,  though  usually  attentive  to  his  discoui'se, 
could  not  keep  her  mind  fixed  upon  it  now.  The  fatigue  of 
the  day  weighed  her  down,  and  the  vague  sounds  from  the  next 
room  lulled  her  to  sleep.  At  first  she  resisted  ;  then,  spite  of 
all  her  efforts,  her  head  became  more  and  more  heavy :  the  lit- 
tle saloon,  with  its  flowery  recesses,  and  pale  lamp,  seemed  to 
float  in  a  mist  before  her  eyes;  at  length  her  lids  closed, 
and  she  slept.  Once  she  was  half-awakened  by  the  voice  of 
Monsieur  de  Sainville,  suddenly  saying: 

"  Poor  little  thing  !  she  has  fallen  asleep." 

'•  Shall  I  awaken  her,  and  take  her  to  her  room,  Armand  ?" 
Rsked  the  voice  of  his  aunt. 

"  Why  so  ?  she  looks  very  comfortable  thus." 

"  Then  help  me  to  put  this  cushion  under  her  head." 

Nathalie  felt  her  head  gently  raised  for  a  moment ;  the  next 
it  had  sunk  into  the  soft  pillow  placed  beneath  it,  and  she  waa 
once  more  in  a  deep  slumber.  She  had  slept  thus  for  some 
time,  when  she  suddenly  awoke  with  the  vague,  undefined  con- 
«ciousnes.s,    that  something — she  knew  not  wliat — had    hap 


NATHALIE. 


231 


pened.  She  looked  up  with  a  start:  the  sounds  from  the 
drawing-room  had  ceased:  all  in  the  little  saloon  was  silent. 
The  lamp  still  burned  with  its  clear  pale  ray ;  the  velvet  dra- 
pery was  slightly  drawn  aside,  and  iu  the  opening  stood  the 
calm  and  handsome  Madame  de  Jussac,  looking  like  a  vision, 
in  her  white  silk  dress.  Nathalie  eyed  her  with  surprise  ;  for 
the  lady's  languid  face  now  wore  a  peculiar  smile,  half  of 
irony,  half  of  triumph.  The  young  girl  looked  around  her  ; 
the  Canoness  was  peacefully  nodding  by  her  side.  Where  was 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  ?  She  turned  slightly,  and  beheld  him 
standing  within  a  few  paces  of  the  divan.  His  face  looked 
more  dark  and  morose  than  she  had  seen  it  for  mz.iaj  a  day ;  it 
was  at  him  Madame  de  Jussac  looked ;  he  returned  her  glance 
with  evident  hauteur. 

"Have  they  been  quarrelling?"  thought  Nathalie. 

"  What  a  charming  place  to  meditate  in,"  said  the  lady  ;  '•  I 
do  not  wonder  that  a  philosopher,  a  grave,  reflective  man,  like 
you,  should  find  it  delightful." 

"  I  suspect  there  has  been  more  sleep  here  than  medita- 
tion," said  Madame  Marceau,  whose  dark  and  smiling  face  now 
appeared  over  the  shoulder  of  her  friend. 

'•  I  did  not  sleep,"  said  the  Canoness,  wakening  up. 

Madame  de  Jussac  smiled. 

"  Neither  did  your  nephew,"  she  said  :  '•  I  found  him  en- 
gaged in  a  deep  fit  of  musing." 

"  Politics !"  observed  Madame  Marceau,  coming  iu  and 
looking  very  graciously  at  her  brother  ;  for  the  influential  indi- 
vidual^ whom  she  had  that  evening  sounded,  had  entered  into 
her  views  even  more  readily  than  she  could  in  her  warmest  an- 
ticipations have  hoped. 

Nathalie  perceiving  that  the  guests  were  gone,  rose  and 
entered  the  front  drawing-room  ;  it  was  empty.  Some  of  the 
lights  were  out ;  most  had  burned  low ;  the  floor  was  covered 
with  fragments  of  the  little  scrolls ;  a  few  withered  bouquets 
lay  about ;  the  whole  room  wore  that  disordered  aspect  so  ad- 
mirably conveyed  in  Hogarth's  celebrated  picture.  Nathalie 
looked  around  her,  and  thought  that  those  late  pleasures  had 
something  dreary  and  hollow  in  all  their  gay  brilliancy.  With- 
out seeking  to  listen,  she  overheard  the  close  of  a  conversation 
between  Madame  Marceau  and  her  brother  in  the  little  saloon. 

"  I  cannot  understand,"  he  said,  in  a  dry,  sharp  voice,  "  how 
so  absurd  a  rumor  was  propagated.  Not  less  than  five  persona 
mentioned  it  to  me  this  evening  as  a  current  report.     I,  a  can* 


232  NATHALIE. 


n>o  -W 


didate  at  the  approaching  elections  !     I,  trying  to  become  de 
puty:  tlie  mere  idea  is  ridiculous."  - 

"  Monsieur  de  Sainville  is  above  politics !"  said  the  soft 
i/onical  voice  of  Madame  de  Jussac. 

"  Armand,"  asked  his  sister,  in  a  low  but  distinct  tone,  "  do 
you  mean  to  say,  that  if  a  canditateship  is  oifered  to  you,  you 
will  decline  it?'"' 

"  I  mean  to  say,  that  I  shall  decline  it." 

Nathalie  heard  Madame  Marceau  rise  abruptly,  and  leave 
the  little  saloon  with  a  quick  hurried  step.  She  approached 
the  table  near  which  the  young  girl  stood  ;  took  up  a  volume  of 
engravings,  turned  over  the  pages  with  a  trembling  hand,  then 
closed  the  book  and  pushed  it  away  with  angry  haste.  Natha- 
lie looked  at  her  with  evident  but  unobserved  wonder :  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  meaning  of  the  bent  brow,  flashing  eyes 
and  compressed  lips ;  resentment,  the  deeper  for  its  suppres- 
sion, was  in  every  haughty  and  quivering  lineament.  For  a 
few  minutes  she  stood  there  struggling  against  passion ;  at 
length  her  features  became  somewhat  more  composed  ;  a  chair 
was  by  her ;  she  sat  down  with  moody  and  abstracted  glance. 
At  the  very  moment  when  her  schemes  seemed  near  their  ful- 
filment, her  brother — their  supposed  instrument — stepped  in 
and  blasted  them  with  a  few  haughty  words.  Twice  in  one 
evening  had  her  haughty  will  to  vail  before  his;  the  first  dis- 
appointment had  seemed  light  until  this  second  deeper  one 
gave  it  new  bitterness.  She  felt  baffled,  irritated,  and  ag- 
grieved ;  for  years  she  had  looked  up  to  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
as  the  hope  of  her  fallen  fortunes  ;  but  now,  she  bitterly  asked 
herself  if,  after  being  the  good,  he  could  not  become  the  evil 
genius  of  her  destiny. 

She  made  an  effort  to  smooth  her  brow,  and  look  cheerful 
as  Madame  de  Jussac  drew  near.  The  legitimist  lady  had 
never  been  in  the  secret  of  her  political  plans,  and  she  flattered 
herself  with  the  belief,  that  they  were  too  deeply  laid  to  be 
divined  by  her ;  to  her  great  relief  it  was  not  her  whom  the 
lady  addressed,  but  Nathalie. 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  said  she,  in  her  soft  caressing 
voice,  "  I  have  been  persuading  our  good  Canoness  to  come 
home  with  me  to-morrow :  of  course  you  will  accompany  her  ?" 

Nathalie  was  somewhat  taken  by  surprise,  but  she  quietly 
assented,  Madame  Marceau  looked  up  with  slight  astonish- 
ment, soon  succeeded  by  indiff'erence.  Her  aunt  and  Nathalie 
might  go  where  they  liked  :  other  thoughts  occupied  her. 


NATHALIE. 


233 


^  Come.  Petite,"  said  the  Canoncss,  leaving  the  little  saloon 
;i  her  turn,  '•  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  Look,  it  is  near  one. 
Well,  what  do  you  want  in  there  1"  she  added,  as  she  saw  Na- 
thalie push  the  drapery  aside ;  "the  slippers!  Why  you  do 
not  want  to  wear  them  at  night ;  ugly  things  !" 

Without  heeding  her  the  young  girl  re-entered  the  little 
saloon.  Monsieur  de  Sainvillo  sat  alone  on  the  divan  more 
morose  than  ever.  He  looked  up  and  his  look  was  not  gra- 
cious. 

"Have  you  forgotten  any  thing?"  he  asked,  in  a  brief 
tone. 

"  The  slippers,  sir,"  she  replied  with  a  glance  of  surprise. 

He  had  never  addressed  her  thus  before. 

"  Here  they  are."  He  handed  them  to  her  quickly,  as  if 
her  presence  importuned  him. 

Nathalie  took  them  silently,  but  when  she  reached  the  dra- 
pery she  suddenly  came  back.  She  remembered  Madame  de 
Jussac's  invitation,  and  thought  he  might  be  offended  about 
that. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  simply,  "  have  I  done  any  thing  wrong  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  evident  surprise.  She  stood  before 
him  with  serious,  yet  child-like  grace,  and  he  could  not  help 
thinking,  that  none  save  a  child  would  have  asked  such  a  ques- 
tion. 

'•  You  have  done  nothing  wrong,"  he  replied,  in  his  usual 
tone  ;  "  but  it  is  late,  ray  aunt  is  waiting  for  you :  good  night." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

At  an  early  hour  on  the  following  morning,  Madame  dij 
Jussac  left,  accompanied  by  the  Canoness  and  her  young  com- 
panion. Her  chateau  was  a  few  leagues  away  ;  Nathalie  had 
often  heard  it  mentioned  as  one  of  the  most  elegant  and  luxu- 
rious abodes  in  the  province.  She  expected  to  be  pleased,  and 
was  only  disappointed  ;  it  was  essentially  a  modern  abode,  and 
wealth  could  not  replace  the  antique  charm  of  Sainville. 

The  same  disappointment  awaited  her  in  the  pleasures 
which  the  chiiteau  afforded ;  they  were  varied  and  frequent, 
but  to  Nathalie  they  seemed  cold  and  monotonous.     Thanks 


234  KATIIALIE 

to  the  evident  partiality  of  Madame  de  Jussac  for  her,  she 
could  not  complain  of  neglect ;  indeed,  she  received  great  and 
very  flattering  attention  ;  but  she  received  it  with  indifference, 
for  during  the  whole  week  that  the  visit  lasted,  she  was  a  prey 
to  ennui.  "  If  this  is  good  society,"  thought  she,  "  I  have 
enough  of  it."  She  found  some  pleasure,  however,  in  walking 
in  the  garden.  There  was  a  high  terrace,  with  marble  vases 
filled  with  flowers,  that  reminded  her  of  Sainville,  and  from 
which  the  old  chateau  was  visible  in  the  fine  weather.  She 
came  there  early  in  the  morning,  before  the  Canoness  was  up, 
and  was  generally  joined  by  Madame  de  Jussac. 

"  You  are  looking  for  Sainville,"  said  the  lady  to  her,  one 
morning,  when  she  found  her  standing  by  the  stone  balustrade, 
with  her  look  fastened  on  the  horizon  ;  '•  you  cannot  see  it  yet, 
the  mist  is  too  great ;  you  seem  to  like  Sainville." 

'•  I  like  it  very  much." 

"  Yes.  it  is  a  pleasant  place." 

She  took  the  young  girl's  arm  ;  they  walked  up  and  down 
the  lonely  terrace  ;  the  lady  spoke  of  Sainville  and  its  inhabit- 
ants ;  Nathalie  listened.  The  name  of  Charles  Marceau  hap- 
pened to  be  mentioned,  and  Nathalie,  with  a  heedlessness  which 
she  immediately  repented,  allowed  Madame  de  Jussac  to  per- 
ceive that  the  intended  marriage  between  the  young  man  and 
her  daughter  was  known  to  her.  Madame  de  Jussac  looked 
amused. 

'•  So,  my  dear  child,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  you  really  have 
believed  that  a  daughter  of  mine  would  one  day  be  Madame 
Charles  Marceau." 

Nathalie  looked  disconcerted ;  Madame  de  Jussac  kindly 
assured  her  she  was  not  in  the  least  offended,  though  the  idea 
had  certainly  amused  her.  She  then  proceeded  to  an  analysis 
of  her  friend's  son,  from  which  it  appeared  that  Charles  was 
ignorant  and  presumptuous,  without  either  the  name  or  posi- 
tion which  could  induce  even  the  most  kindly  disposed  to  over- 
look those  disadvantages. 

"  Is  he  not  to  take  the  name  of  De  Sainville,  and  is  he  not 
his  uncle's  heir  ?"  asked  Nathalie. 

Madame  de  Jussac  gave  her  a  penetrating  glance,  and 
asked  her,  with  a  smile,  if  she  believed  this.  Nathalie  quietly 
assured  her  that  she  did :  upon  which  Madame  de  Jussac  com- 
posedly replied  that  she  did  not  think  so.  She  spoke  like  one 
who  knew  more  than  she  said. 

''  The  only  real  claim  of  Monsieur  Charles  Marceau  on  at 


xXATHALIE.  235 

tention,"  she  resumed,  after  a  pause,  •'  is  that  he  chances  to  be 
the  nephew  of  a  gentleman  who  might,  if  he  wished,  be  the  first 
man  of  this  district,  and  indeed  of  the  province  ;  but  who,  spite 
of  the  haughty  inaction  to  which  he  condemns  himself,  is,  nev 
ertheless,  a  very  remarkable  man." 

Nathalie  heard  her  with  surprise,  but  she  was  destined  to 
be  more  astonished  stiU.  Madame  de  Jussac,  with  a  freedom 
from  pique  and  resentment  which  charmed  her  listener,  pro- 
ceeded to  draw  a  highly-colored  and  somewhat  flattering  por- 
trait of  her  late  host.  He  was  not  only  the  soul  of  generosity 
and  honor, — not  only  a  man  of  powerful  and  varied  intellect. — 
but  he  was  naturally  of  a  most  amiable  and  winning  disposi- 
tion. Nathalie  could  not  help  demurring ;  she  thought  him 
cold  and  severe. 

'■  My  dear  child,"  softly  said  the  lady,  "  you  would  not 
think  so  if  you  had  seen  what  I  have  seen  ;  namely,  Monsieur 
de  Sainville  in  love." 

Nathalie  looked  as  if  she  longed  to  question  ;  but  there  was 
no  need  ;  Madame  de  Jussac  was  willing  to  speak. 

"  It  was  indeed  some  years  ago  ;  but  I  assure  you  that  he 
was  then  what  he  is  now  ;  the  difference,  if  there  was  any,  was 
slight.  I  have  some  experience ;  I  have  seen  many  men  in 
love,  but  he  is  the  only  one  who,  to  my  seeming,  could  love 
deeply,  passionately  even,  without  looking  foolish  or  ridicu- 
lous ;  and  if  you  could  only  guess  how  rare,  how  very  rare, 
that  is  !" 

She  said  more,  but  her  language  was  less  clear  than  she 
who  listened  desired  ;  indeed,  she  soon  completely  changed  the 
subject,  and  from  Monsieur  de  Sainville  passed  to  Monsieur  de 
Sainville's  political  opinions.  She  deplored  that  a  man  of  his 
birth  and  talent  declined  devoting  himself  to  the  cause  of  legit- 
imacy, and  as  Nathalie  did  not  seem  much  impressed  with  this 
reasoning,  she  entered  into  a  long  and  detailed  explanation  of 
the  legitimist  doctrines,  which  lasted  an  hour  and  a  half. 
Every  morning  a  similar  conversation  recurred  between  them, 
with  this  difference,  that  the  name  of  Charles  Marceau  was  no 
more  mentioned,  and  that  the  political  lectures  of  Madame  de 
Jussac  became  more  and  more  eloquent.  Nathalie  did  not  for 
one  moment  imagine  that  her  conversion  to  legitimacy  was  the 
lady's  object,  and  though  expressions,  which  she  did  not  then 
notice,  but  which  she  afterwards  remembered,  led  her  to  think 
80  at  a  later  period,  her  present  impression  was,  that  her 
hostess  had  taken  a  fancy  to  her,  and  mentioned  politics  be- 
cause politics  were  uppermost  in  her  mind. 


23G  NATHALIE. 

The  day  for  their  return  came  at  length,  and  there  was 
something  in  Nathalie's  face  as  they  neared  Sainville,  ■which 
struck  even  the  Canoness.  The  young  girl  was  always  looking 
out  of  the  carriage-window,  admiring  every  thing  which  they 
passed,  and  praising  all  she  saw  with  so  much  warmth  and  ani 
mation,  that  Aunt  Kadegonde  observed  with  much  finesse, — 

"  Ah  !  Petite,  you  want  me  to  think  you  are  delighted  to 
go  home  ;  you  want  me  to  think  that  you  prefer  our  dull  place 
to  that  gay  ch&teau  de  Jussac." 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  very  decisively  replied  Nathalie.  But 
Aunt  Radegonde's  penetration  was  not  to  be  thus  deceived, 
and  she  saw,  she  said,  through  her  young  friend's  kind-hearted 
ruse.  It  was  evening  when  they  reached  the  chateau  ;  Mad- 
ame Marceau  was  unwell  in  her  room. 

"  Then  we  shall  spend  the  evening  together  in  my  boudoir," 
said  the  Canoness  with  a  little  selfisli  joy  ;  "  will  you  wait  for 
me  there,  Petite,  whilst  I  go  up  to  Rosalie's  room  1  If  Ar- 
mand  should  come,  tell  him  he  is  not  to  go  without  seeing  me  ; 
keep  him  in  conversation." 

Nathalie  went  up  to  the  boudoir.  She  found  every  thing 
familiar  and  cheerful  looking,  and  felt  glad  to  be  come  back  ; 
it  seemed  as  if  she  had  been,  not  a  few  days,  but  a  whole 
month  awa}^.  The  door  opened  ;  she  started,  but  it  was  only 
Amanda,  who  came  in  for  some  trifling  purpose,  and  seemed 
delighted  to  see  mademoiselle  once  more.  Nathalie  heard  her 
abstractedly,  and  felt  relieved  when  she  left.  About  ten  mi- 
nutes elapsed,  the  door  opened  again ;  this  time  Nathalie  did 
not  look  up  from  her  work. 

"  How  industrious  you  are  alread}',"  said  the  voice  of  Aunt 
Radegonde. 

Nathalie  looked  up  slowly  ;  the  Canoness  was  alone.  She 
had  found  her  niece  very  unwell  ;  nothing  serious,  of  course, 
still  it  was  very  provoking,  for  it  would  delay  her  intended 
journey  to  Paris  for  a  month  or  six  weeks  ;  such  was  the  doc- 
tor's decision.  Then  followed  a  long  dissertation  on  illness  in 
general,  and  on  two  or  three  Tery  remarkable  illnesses  with 
which  the  Canoness  had  been  afflicted,  and  during  which  she 
had  been  attended  by  Doctor  Montolieu.  Nathalie  heard  her 
with  such  evident  abstraction,  that  Aunt  Radegonde  ended 
by  noticing  it. 

"  I  cannot  imagine  what  is  the  matter  witli  you  to-night," 
she  said,  a  little  pettishly ;  "  you  start  and  jump  in  a  very  pe- 
culiar way.     Are  you  nervous  ?    I  hope  not.  for  when  Rosalie 


NATHALIE.  237 

is  gone  we  shall  have  a  lonely  life  of  it;  and  if  every  sound 
fidgets  you  so,  what  will  you  do  in  the  long  winter  evenings, 
without  even  Armand  to  come  in  and  talk  for  an  hour  ?" 

"  Will  Monsieur  de  Sainville  accompany  Madame  Marceau  ?" 
she  asked. 

"  Accompany  her,  Petite!  Why  did  I  not  tell  you?  How 
forgetful  you  are  ;  I  am  sure  I  told  you." 

"  You  told  me  nothing,"'  said  Nathalie,  laying  down  her 
work. 

"  What!   I  did  not  say  Armand  was  gone?" 

"Gone!    No,  Marraine,  3'ou  did  not." 

"  Well,  he  is  gone,  Petite  ;  gone  for  the  winter ;  gone  ro 
Spain,  I  believe.  I  dare  say  he  will  come  back  next  spring,  or 
nest  summer  at  the  latest.  Indeed,  if  you  can  only  get  over 
your  nervousness,  w(5  shall  have  a  very  quiet  and  comfortable 
winter." 

Nathalie  Ic-jked  thoughtful,  and  worked  on  in  silence. 

The  winter  set  in  early.  It  was  as  the  Canoness  had  pre- 
dicted, extremely  quiet.  Madame  Marceau  brooded  over  her 
disappointments  in  her  own  room,  whence  she  seldom  emerged. 
At  length  she  took  her  departure  for  Paris,  where  the  elegant 
Amanda  accompanied  her.  The  Canoness  and  the  young  girl 
remained  alone  in  the  chateau,  with  the  servants ;  and  never 
did  solitude  weigh  so  heavily  on  Nathalie. 

Amongst  the  "wrongs  of  women,"  few  are  really  more 
heavy  and  insupportable  than  the  forced  inactivity  to  which 
they  are  condemned  in  all  the  life,  fire,  and  energy  of  youth. 
That  thirst  for  pleasure,  for  which  they  are  so  much  reproved, 
is  only  the  thirst  for  excitement  and  action.  They  are  social 
prisoners,  and,  like  the  enchanted  princesses  of  fairy  tales,  they 
look  down  from  the  high  and  inaccessible  tower  of  their  solitude 
on  the  life  and  action  ever  going  on  beneath  them,  but  in  which 
they  must  never  hope  to  join.  Some,  timid  and  shrinking,  love 
their  sheltering  captivity  ;  by  far  the  greater  number  hate  it 
in  their  hearts,  yet,  obedient  to  necessity,  grow  either  apathetic 
or  resigned  :  a  few,  more  daring,  or  rendered  reckless,  break 
through  their  bonds,  and  throw  themselves  into  the  social 
strife  ;  but  for  one  who  wins  the  shore,  how  many  perish  mi- 
serably ! 

Enmd^  in  all  its  dreariness,  now  fell  on  Nathalie.  She  re- 
gretted the  school  of  Mademoiselle  Dantin.  There  she  had  to 
struggle  and  act  ; — she  lived.  But  here  it  seemed  as  if  the 
shadow  of  more  than  monastic  stillness  had  suddenly  fallen  up- 


238  NATHALIE 

on  her  existence.  No  visitors  came  to  the  eliateau,  iu  the  ab- 
sence of  its  master.  Once,  Madame  de  Jussac  called  ;  she 
looked  slightly  di.sconcertcd  on  hearing  that  Monsieur  de  Saiu- 
ville  was  gone.  Nathalie  longed  for  an  invitation  similar  to 
that  which  she  had  formerly  so  little  valued  ;  but  Madame  de 
Jussac  left  without  opening  her  lips  on  that  subject,  and,  in- 
deed, without  vitteriug  more  than  a  few  smooth  phrases.  She 
returned  no  more. 

In  the  long  winter  evenings,  when  Aunt  Radegonde  slept, 
or  indulged  in  monotonous  speech,  Nathalie  thought  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville,  and  followed  him  in  his  southern  wanderings 
with  something  like  envy.  Why  was  he  free  as  air,  whilst  she 
was  condemned  to  waste  her  youth,  and  perhaps  all  her  exist- 
ence, in  this  forced  repose?  The  only  thing  that  did  her  good 
was  to  take  long  solitary  walks  in  the  garden  and  grounds.  She 
came  in  cold  and  fatigued,  but  at  least  relieved  for  a  while  of 
the  superfluous  energy  which  oppressed  her,  and  made  stillness 
of  mind  and  body  a  sort  of  inexpressible  torment.  Three 
months  thus  passed  away. 

Madame  Marceau  had  been  gone  a  few  weeks,  when,  on  a 
bleak  afternoon,  Nathalie  went  out  for  her  daily  walk,  in  spite 
of  all  the  remonstrances  of  the  Canoness.  She  remained  out 
about  two  hours,  and  reentered  the  house  as  evening  set  in. 
She  proceeded,  as  usual,  to  the  boudoir  of  Aunt  Radegonde. 
The  lamp  was  unlit ;  but  the  wood  fire  burned  with  a  soft  and 
subdued  glow.  The  young  girl  liked  this  quiet  time ;  for  then 
the  Canoness  slept,  and  allowed  Nathalie  to  wander  away  in 
her  inner  world  of  thought.  She  now  softly  closed  the  door, 
came  in  on  tip-toe,  went  up  to  the  window,  allowed  the  curtains 
to  fall -in  heavy  folds,  which  excluded  the  glimmering  twilight, 
listened  for  a  while  at  the  back  of  AuntRadegonde's  arm-chair, 
and,  concluding  from  the  stillness  there  that  its  tenant  slept, 
quietly  glided  around  it  to  her  place, — a  low  seat,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fire ;  then,  leaning  her  forehead  on  her  hand,  she 
looked  at  the  burning  embers,  and  fell  into  a  deep  fit  of 
musing.  She  thought  of  sunny  Spain, — of  barren  plains,  wild 
valleys,  and  old  Moorish  cities,  where  all  night  long  were  heard 
the  sounds  of  dance  and  serenade. 

"  Have  you  got  a  head-ache  ?"  a.sked  a  well-known  voice. 

She  did  not  start,  look  up,  or  turn  round ;  she  remained 
in  the  same  attitude,  as  if  arrested  thus  by  the  power  of  en- 
chantment. 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  not  well,  Petite,"  continued  the  voice, 
now  sounding  like  that  of  Aunt  Radegonde. 


NATHALIK.  239 

"  And  I  am  sure,  that  though  you  change  j'our  voice,  and 
call  me  Petite,  you  are  not  Marraine !"  cried  Nathalie,  eagerly 
bending  forward ;  but  the  arm-chair  stood  in  the  shade,  and 
ehe  could  not  see.  '•  No  matter,"  she  impatiently  added,  '•  I 
know  very  well  who  you  are.  There  !  I  see  you  now !"  she 
triumphantly  exclaimed,  as  a  flickering  light  arose,  and  dis- 
played the  smiling  face  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  who  now  oc- 
cupied his  aunt's  arm-chair,  facing  Nathalie.  The  flame  also 
lit  up  her  features ;  she  looked  more  than  glad  ;  she  seemed 
delighted.  He  amused  himself  for  a  few  moments  in  watching 
her  changing  face,  as  changing  as  the  wavering  light  which  fell 
on  it  now.  *■•  So  you  are  really  come  back  !"  she  said,  rubbing 
her  little  hands  with  evident  glee,  and  not  seeming  in  the  least 
to  think  it  necessary  to  hide  the  pleasure  she  felt  at  Monsieur 
de  Sainville's  return. 

'•  Yes,  I  am  really  come  back,"  he  replied  ;  and  he  did  not 
look  displeased  at  the  evident  gratification  his  return  afforded 
to  the  young  girl.  It  was,  to  say  the  truth,  something  new  in 
his  experience,  to  see  a  face  brightening  through  his  unexpected 
presence. 

Nathalie  shook  her  head,  laughed  a  gay  short  laugh,  rose 
abruptly,  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  came  back  to  her  seat, 
and  allowing  herself  to  fall  down  upon  it  with  negligent  grace, 
said  gayly : 

"  I  am  so  glad  !" 

"Glad  of  what?"  he  asked,  as  if  willing  to  indulge  himself 
for  once  in  the  pleasure  of  this  naive  flattery. 

"  Glad  that  you  are  come  back,  sir." 

"  Indeed  !  why  so,  my  child  !"  he  slowly  asked. 

"  Because  I  am  half  dead  with  ennui .'" 

"  Candid  confession  !"  he  exclaimed,  looking,  and  feeling, 
perhaps,  a  little  piqued. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  it  is  candid.  If  cnmii  could  kill,  I  should  bo 
quite  dead." 

"And  how  do  you  know  I  shall  dissipate  yours?" 

"  Oh  !  Mon  Dieic !"  cried  Nathalie,  looking  much  dis 
mayed,  "  you  are  going  away  again  ?" 

"  No,  not  this  winter,  at  least." 

She  looked  much  relieved. 

"  So  you  suffered  from  e/imn  ?"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  gave  a  rueful  sigh.  He  smiled, 
and  said,  "  Poor  child  !"  but  his  smile  was  not  very  compas* 
sionatC;  as  he  asked  her  '•  what  sort  of  an  ennui  it  was?" 


240  NATHALIE. 

"  A  desperate  ennui,  sir ;  something  quite  overpowering 
that  took  hold  of  me  in  the  morning,  and  did  not  leave  me  at 
night." 

"  You  found  the  chateau  dull,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  I  found  it  empty,  sir." 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  resumed,  after  a  brief  pause,  "  that  you 
must  have  good  nerves  ?  You  did  not  seem  a  bit  frightened — 
scarcely  startled,  on  finding  me  here  so  unexpectedly." 

"  Because  I  knew  your  voice  at  the  very  first  word  you  ut- 
tered ;  besides,  it  did  not  seem  so  strange  that  you  should  be 
there.  I  was  thinking  of  you,  of  you  and  Spain.  Oh,  sir,  do 
tell  me  something  about  it.  Is  it  a  fine  country  ?  Do  you 
like  the  Spanish  women  ?  Are  they  so  very  pretty  ?  Did  you 
see  them  dance  ?" 

'■'•  I  came  back  through  your  Aries,"  he  replied,  without  an- 
swering her  rapid  questioning. 

"  Aries  !  you  came  through  Aries  !     Oh,  moii  Dieu  /" 

There  was  emotion  in  her  voice.  Without  seeming  to  heed 
it,  he  rang  for  the  light. 

"And  how  did  Aries  look?"  asked  Nathalie,  when  the  ser- 
vant was  gone. 

"  I  could  see  no  change." 

But  Nathalie  was  not  content.  She  questioned  him  mi- 
nutely ;  he  answered  patiently,  and  gave  her  every  detail  she 
desired,  yet  each  reply  made  her  look  more  thoughtful  and 
more  sad.  When  she  had  no  more  to  ask,  and  he  no  more  to 
say,  she  gave  a  deep  sigh,  and  remained  silent.  Monsieur  de 
Sainville  now  stood  near  the  table,  unfastening  a  little  osier 
basket  which  he  had  brought  with  him. 

"  Mademoiselle  Nathalie,"  said  he,  turning  towards  her, 
"do  come  and  look  at  something  I  have  brought  from  my 
travels." 

She  rose  and  approached,  without  seeming  much  interested. 
He  asked  her  to  guess  the  contents  of  the  basket.  She  looked 
at  it ;  turned  round  it,  came  back  to  her  place,  and  shook  her 
head,  and  said  she  did  not  know.  He  smiled,  and  bade  her 
raise  the  lid.  She  promptly  obeyed,  for  her  curiosity  was 
somewhat  roused  ;  to  her  surprise,  she  saw  nothing  but  green 
moss. 

"Look  beneath,"  said  he. 

She  raised  the  moss,  and  beneath  it,  enshrined  in  another 
bed  of  moss  which  they  perfumed,  she  perceived  a  bouquet  of 
such  flowers  as  the  late  season  afforded.  She  looked  up  rather 
disappointed. 


I\'ATHAL!E.  241 

•'  They  are  for  you,"  he  quietly  observed. 

"  For  me,  sir  !"  she  exclaimed  with  a  quick  searching  look. 

'•  Yes  ;  have  you  no  idea  where  they  come  from  ?" 

"  They  come  from  Aries,"  she  replied,  in  a  low  tone. 

She  raised  the  bunch  of  flowers  from  their  mossy  bed,  soft- 
ly and  silently,  without  one  of  the  exclamations  of  pleasure 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  had  expected  ;  looked  at  them  for  a  few 
moments,  and  they  seemed  as  fresh  as  if  newly  gathered  by  the 
hand  which  held  them :  then  bent  over  them,  silently  still. 

"  Well !"  he  at  length  observed,  "  do  they  look  genuine?" 

She  slowly  raised  her  head,  and  looked  up  into  his  face,  as 
he  stood  by  her  side  ;  her  face  was  covered  with  tears. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  she  said,  "  how  shall  I  thank  you  ?" 

He  smiled,  a  little  sadly,  at  her  emotion ;  he  loved  Sain- 
ville ;  but  the  fountain  from  which  flew  such  tears  had  long 
run  dry  for  him. 

"  If  you  only  knew  where  I  had  procured  these  flowers,"  he 
observed,  after  a  pause. 

"  What !  are  they  not  from  Aries  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  from  what  garden  of  Aries  V 

Her  color  came  and  went ;  she  gave  him  a  troubled  look  full 
of  inquiry,  but  his  face  remained  impenetrable.  At  length  she 
faltered  out  that  "  she  could  not  tell — she  did  not  know." 

"  Well,  it  was  only  in  the  garden  of  a  little  house  that 
stands  apart  somewhere  in  the  suburbs.  There  is  an  old  stone 
bench  just  by  the  porch  ;  and  in  the  garden  behind  the  house 
is  a  little  fountain,  with  laurels  around  it." 

"  My  aunt's  house  ! — our  house  ! — the  house  where  I  was 
born  !"  cried  Nathalie.  "  Oh,  mon  Dieu  !" 

She  seemed  unable  to  say  more. 

•'  Oh,  sir  !"  she  at  length  added,  "  what  have  I  done  that 
you  should  be  so  very  kind  to  me  V 

She  raised  the  flowers  to  her  lips,  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
him  ;  he  took  it  and  seemed  to  enjoy  her  pleasure.  But  when 
this  emotion  had  subsided  she  questioned  him  eagerly.  By 
what  chance  had  he  discovered  that  house; — for  it  was  by 
chance,  of  course  1  She  remembered  mentioning  it  to  him  once 
still  she  did  not  suppose  he  had  taken  the  trouble  to  find  it 
out,  for  it  was  not  easy  to  find  !  She  seemed  so  confident  that 
it  was  all  the  result  of  chance  that  he  looked  slightly  discon- 
certed, and  allowed  her  to  remain  in  that  belief, — which  did 
not  seem,  however,  to  lessen  her  gratitude  in  the  least.  In- 
deed, she  was  renewing  her  thanks  with  southern  vivacity  and 


242  NATHALIE. 

fervor,  when  the  door  opened  and  Aunt  Radegonde  entered. 
Nathalie  eagerly  ran  up  to  her,  and  told  her  the  story  of  the 
bouquet.  "  How  kind  it  was  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville  to  bring 
those  flowers  to  her,  and  what  an  extraordinary  chance  had 
made  him  enter  the  very  house  where  she  and  her  aunt  lived 
at  Aries."  The  Canoness  heard  Nathalie  without  uttering  a 
word,  and  gave  her  nephew  an  astonished  look,  which  he  did 
not  seem  to  heed. 

'•  Yes,"  she  said  abstractedly  ;  "  it  is  very  peculiar,  as  you 
say,  Petite." 

She  sat  down  in  her  arm-chair  and  looked  musingly  at  the 
fire,  whilst  Nathalie  left  the  room  to  put  her  flowers  in  water. 
Monsieur  de  Sainville,  with  his  usual  restlessness,  was  walking 
up  and  down  the  narrow  houdoir. 

"  Aunt,"  said  he,  suddenly  stopping  short  before  her,  "'you 
said  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  was  '^uite  well ; — I  find  her 
much  thinner,  poor  little  thing  !" 

'•  And  if  she  is  thin,  what  about  it  ?"  rather  shortly  asked 
his  aunt. 

"  It  is  a  great  deal  to  me  as  her  guardian." 

The  Canoness  looked  greatly  provoked,  but  the  entrance  of 
Nathalie  cheeked  her  reply.  During  her  tempoi-ary  absence, 
the  Canoness  had  been  engaged  in  giving  orders  for  all  the 
rooms  devoted  to  her  nephew's  use  to  be  aired,  heated,  and  pre- 
pared, and  especially  for  the  dinner  to  be  hurried  as  much  as 
possible.  Nathalie  now  brought  the  tidings  that  it  was  nearly 
ready. 

'•"Why  should  we  not  dine  up  here?  I  like  your  boudoir, 
aunt,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 

"  Oh !  how  delightful  it  would  be,  Marraine,"  cried  Na- 
thalie. 

The  Canoness  smiled  at  the  idea  of  having  a  favor  to  grant. 
She  pretended  to  hesitate  a  good  deal  and  raise  numerous  ob- 
jections, but  she  at  length  consented  with  much  graciousness, 
The  houdoir  was  far  too  small ;  and  yet  it  was  a  pleasant  meal ; 
and  when  it  was  over,  they  had  a  very  pleasant  evening  sitting 
all  three  around  the  fire.  The  ladies  questioned  Monsieur  de 
Sainville  on  his  travels,  but  he  seemed  to  have  been  very  little 
interested  by  what  he  saw,  and  consequently  had  not  much  to 
say  on  that  score. 

"  Then  why  did  you  go,  Armand  ?"  asked  his  aunt. 

"  For  the  pleasure  of  coming  back  again,  aunt ;  by  far  thfl 
most  real  pleasure  of  travelling." 


NATHALIE.  243 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  retired  early.  His  aunt  followed 
tiim  out  of  the  rL-om  with  an  important  air,  and  looked  very 
important  when  she  returned,  in  the  course  of  a  quarter  of  an 
hour 

'•  Petite,"  she  gravely  said  ;  "  do  put  by  your  work,  I  want 
to  speak  to  you.  Petite,"  she  resumed,  as  Nathalie  complied 
with  evident  surprise  ;  "  reserve  is  a  virtue  highly  necessary  to 
women,  and  chiefly  to  women  like  us,  in  the  unmarried  state. 
Now,  when  I  came  in  here  this  evening  I  found  you  standing 
there,  with  flowers  in  one  hand,  the  other  hand,  my  child,  was 
in  that  of  Armand.  Mind,  I  do  not  say  it  was  wrong,  but  it 
was  not  quite  reserved." 

Nathalie  colored  deeply,  and  did  not  reply  at  once. 

"  Marraine,"  she  said  at  length,  "  it  was  an  irresistible  im- 
pulse, foolish  perhaps,  but  certainly  innocent.  Monsieur  de 
Sainville  has  been  so  kind  to  me,  that  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  1 
were  his  child  and  he  my  father." 

"  I  never  knew  any  thing  so  absurd  !"  impatiently  exclaim- 
ed the  Canoness  ;  '•  I  perceive  I  must  open  your  eyes  as  I  have 
been  opening  his.  He  calls  you  '  his  ward,'  or  •  a  child,'  or 
even  'poor  little  thing.'  You  speak  of  him  as  of  an  old  man. 
Now,  my  dear,  if  both  you  and  he  labor  under  this  great  mis- 
take, I,  a  woman  of  penetration,  do  not,  and  I  feel  it  my  duty 
to  enlighten  you ;  I  assure  you,  therefore,  that  Armand  could 
by  no  means  "be  your  father;  just  as  I  have  been  assuring  him 
that  you  are  neither  a  child  nor  a  little  girl." 

'•  Oh,  Marraine  !"  cried  Nathalie,  "  how  could  you  speak  to 
him  about  any  thing  of  the  kind?"  She  looked  irritated  and 
ashamed. 

"  Mademoiselle  Petite,"  dryly  said  the  Canoness,  '•'  allow  me 
to  say,  that  I  am  not  only  a  woman  of  penetration,  but^  also  a 
woman  of  discretion  and  reserve.  Do  you  imagine  I  said  any 
thing  improper  to  my  nephew  ?  Do  you  imagine  I  alluded  to 
the  fact  which  I  mentioned  to  you?  No,  indeed ;  but  in  an 
adroit  and  delicate  manner  I  introduced  your  name,  and  hint- 
ed that  though  you  were  so  childish,  you  were  not  a  child,  but 
a  young  and  very  pretty  gild.  He  took  the  hint,  and  said  quite 
seriously,  '  I  know  it,  x\unt.'  " 

A  rosy  blush  suiFused  the  features  of  Nathalie  ;  she  looked 
/ery  much  discomposed,  whilst  the  Canoness  continued  in  her 
usual  tone : 

"You  see.  you  might  have  relied  on  ray  discretion,  Petite. 
Indeed  you  need  not  have  been  so  offended  at  what  I  said.   In 


244  NATHALIE. 

my  time,  my  dear,"  she  added,  glancing  at  her  soft  wliite 
hands,  "  a  lady's  hand  was  a  rare  and  precious  thing  to  touch  ; 
and  the  lover  admitted  to  kiss  the  tips  of  his  lady's  fingers  waa 
often  overpowered  by  his  feelings, — the  favor  was  so  great. 
I  know  that  in  modern  times  relaxations  have  been  intro- 
duced, but  /  cannot  approve  the  principle." 

Nathalie  looked  up,  her  face  was  flushed,  and  when  she 
spoke,  she  spoke  quickly,  and  with  eager  warmth. 

"  Marraine,"  she  said,  "  I  know  not  if  you  have  done  right 
■)r  wrong  in  speaking  thus  ;  but  this  I  know,  that — come 
what  may — I  thank  you." 

She  rose,  kissed  her,  and  was  ^one. 

'•  Docile  little  creature,"  thought  the  Canoness,  delighted 
at  the  result  of  her  interference  ;  "  how  she  will  learn  in  time 
to  understand  the  beauties  of  female  celibacy." 

Nathalie  was  then  in  her  room.  She  had  paused  in  the 
act  of  undressing  before  her  mirror,  and  now  looked  with  smi- 
ling eyes  and  parted  lips  at  the  charming  image  its  depths  re- 
vealed.    Oh  !  wise  Aunt  Radegonde  ! 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Winter,  was  over ;  but  the  spring  was  cool,  and  a  bright 
wood  fire  burned  on  the  drawing-room  hearth.  Though  it  was 
evening,  the  lamp  was  still  unlit,  the  firelight  almost  supplied 
its  place  ;  its  cheerful  and  vivid  glow  extended  to  the  furthest 
ex.'i.remity  of  the  room,  giving  warmth  to  the  old  pictures  on 
the  wall,  and  light  to  the  gleaming  mirrors.  The  windows 
with  curtains  drawn  back  alone  looked  dark,  yet,  beyond  them 
shone  a  few  pale  stars  in  the  depths  of  the  gloomy  sky,  against 
which,  more  gloomy  still,  waved  the  dark  trees  of  the  avenue. 

On  one  side  of  the  fire-place,  but  with  her  back  turned  to 
it,  sat  Nathalie  on  her  low  chair.  One  hand  supported  her 
cheek,  the  other  rested  on  a  book  which  lay  open  on  her  lap. 
She  was  slightly  bent  forward  in  the  attitude  of  reading,  and 
the  light  which  fell  on  the  open  page,  also  lit  up  her  clear  and 
well-defined  profile.  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  similarly  engaged, 
eat  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire-  place,  but  he  faced  the  fire  ; 
the  flickering  light  fell  in  full  upon  him ;  and  whereas  it  gave 
a  richer  warmth  and  deeper  coloring  to  the  young  girl's  coun 


NATIIALIK  243 

tcnance,  it  only  seemed  to  render  his  grave  features  more  cold 
and  colorless.  They  appeared  to  be  alone,  and  neither  spoke. 
Tired,  perhaps,  of  the  position  he  was  compelled  to  assume  in 
order  to  receive  the  light  of  the  fire  on  the  page  he  read,  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville  at  length  closed  the  volume  and  reclined 
back  in  his  seat. 

"  Do  you  wish  for  the  lamp,  sir?"  asked  Nathalie,  in  a 
low  tone,  and  without  looking  up  from  her  book  ;  "  shall  I  rini? 
for  it  ?" 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied,  speaking  low  like  her ;  it 
would  oul}^  cause  my  sister  to  awaken  ;  she  likes  this  evening 
sleep." 

Was  Nathalie  mistaken,  or  was.  there  indeed  something  in 
the  speaker's  tone  that  justified  tlie  quick  look  she  raised  to- 
wards him  ?  but  his  features  no  longer  received  the  light  from 
the  fire,  and  she  could  not  trace  their  meaning;  hers  assumed 
a  surprised  and  puzzled  expression  as  she  glanced  from  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville  to  a  sofa  behind  him.  On  this  sofa  his  sis- 
ter lay  reclining  in  the  more  shadowy  part  of  the  room  ;  the 
sound  of  her  breathing,  quick  and  oppressed  like  that  of  a  per- 
son in  sleep,  was  heard  at  a  regular  interval.  Nathalie  lis- 
tened to  it  for  a  Avhile,  then  rose,  stepped  softly  across  the 
room,  and  placed  a  screen  between  Madame  Marceau  and  the 
fire.  As  she  was  turning  away  from  the  couch  she  met  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville's  inquiring  look. 

'•  I  was  afraid  the  light  might  awaken  her,"  she  simply 
said,  and  resumed  her  seat. 

He  gave  her  a  fixed  and  penetrating  look,  then  once  more 
took  up  his  book  and  previous  position. 

Ever  since  her  return  from  Paris,  that  is  to  say,  for  two 
months,  Madame  Marceau  had  been  seriously  ill ;  but  this  she 
pertinaciously  refused  to  acknowledge.  In  spite  of  remon- 
strance and  entreaties,  she  declared  that  she  only  labored  un- 
der slight  indisposition ;  though  she  was  compelled  to  keep 
reclining  on  the  sofa  all  day  long,  nothing  could  induce  her  to 
retire  to  her  own  room  ;  she  persisted  in  remaining  in  the 
saloon,  in  order  to  see  every  one  who  might  chance  to  call. 
Visits  had  never  been  numerous  at  the  chateau  of  Sainville, 
they  became  less  frequent  every  day  ;  Madame  de  Jussac  sel- 
dom came  ;  yet,  Madame  Marceau,  attired  with  her  usual  e?^- 
gance,  still  remained  in  the  drawing-room,  ready  to  pay  the 
honors  of  that  house,  of  which  she  considered  herself  almost 
the  mistress.     The  doctor  warned,  her  brother  remonstrated, 


24C  NATHALIE. 

both  in  vain  :  the  sick  lady  shrank  from  taking  to  hei  bed 
with  a  feeling  that  resembled  horror ;  she  seemed  to  entertain 
an  instinctive  and  unconquerable  dread  of  acknowledging,  even 
thus  indirectly,  the  fatal  progress  disease  had  made. 

The  Canoness  acted  in  a  wholly  different  spirit.  No 
sooner  did  the  first  severe  cold  give  her  a  touch  of  rheuma- 
tism, than  she  clothed  herself  in  flannel  from  head  to  foot, 
discovered  that  the  drawing-room  was  full  of  draughts,  retired 
to  her  little  botcdoi)\  and,  having  caused  every  cranny  to  be 
stopped,  up,  and  a  huge  fire  to  burn  night  and  day  in  the 
chimney,  was  in  a  fair  way  of  being  suffocated,  when  both  the 
doctor  and  Monsieur  de  Sainville  fortunately  interfered.  But 
though  she  submitted  very  reluctantly  to  their  advice,  they 
wholly  failed  in  persuading  her  that  it  would  be  possible  for 
her  to  leave  the  boudoir,  and  not  perish  of  cold.  Nathalie's 
coaxing  entreaties  did  indeed,  once  succeed  in  bringing  her 
down  to  the  drawing-room,  but  after  an  hour's  stay  she  went 
up  in  a  shivering  fit,  declaring  with  some  asperity,  that  unless 
there  were  a  conspiracy  against  her  life,  no  one  would  after 
this  trial,  think  of  asking  her  to  come  down  again ;  which  of 
course  no  one  did.  When  she  first  determined  on  remaining 
in  her  boudoir,  Aunt  Radegonde  imagined  that  Nathalie 
would  be  with  her  constantly  ;  but  Madame  Marceau  had 
since  her  return  conceived  so  great  an  affection  for  the  young 
girl,  that  she  could  not  bear  to  have  her  out  of  her  sight ;  she 
now  called  her  "Petite,"  like  her  aunt;  treated  her  with  a 
kind  familiarity,  wholly  free  from  patronage  ;  and  insisted  on 
the  exclusive  possession  of  her  society,  to  the  great  chagrin  of 
Aunt  Radegonde,  who  was  thus  obliged  to  be  satisfied 
with  the  companionship  of  Amanda. 

The  elegant  femme-de-chambre,  whose  life  had  been  spent 
with  la  flcur  des  j^ois  of  the  French  noblesse,  felt  wounded  iu 
her  artistic  pride.  Was  it  because  she  condescended  to  receive 
a  salary,  that  her  talents  were  to  remain  idle  ?  Why  she  was 
losing  her  lightness  and  delicacy  of  touch  with  every  day's  in- 
action !  This  indirect  appeal  to  Madame  Marceau's  sense  of 
justice  produced  an  increase  in  the  yearly  sum  which  Made- 
moiselle Amanda  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving ;  and  which  in- 
crease was  considered  by  this  experienced  coiffeuse  as  a  very 
slight  compensation  for  the  inexpressible  damage  she  sustained 
in  thus  doing  nothing.  To  say  the  truth,  she  was  not  quite  so 
inactive  as  she  chose  to  appear,  since  she  had  succeeded  in 
persuading  Nathalie  to  accept  of  her  daily  services  ;  by  which 


NATHALIE.  247 

means  she  had  uot  ouly  kept  her  hand  in,  but  also  relieved 
herself  of  a  great  superfluity  of  speech ;  lamenting  her  fate 
to  the  young  girl,  and  appealing  to  "mademoiselle  to  know 
whether  the  chateau  had  not  become  insufferably  dull  ?" 

The  chateau  was,  indeed,  any  thing  but  a  gay  sojourn  ;  but 
though  she  was  thus  secluded  from  every  society,  save  that  of 
its  owners,  Nathalie  did  not  find  this  monotony  wearisome. 
A  time  had  been  when  she  would  have  shrunk  with  terror  and 
ennui  from  so  monastic  an  existence ;  but  now  she  found  a 
soothing  charm  in  its  very  regularity  and  tranquil  tenqr.  She 
liked,  since  Madame  Marceau  had  become  kind,  without  con- 
descension, to  sit  with  her,  read  and  play  to  her,  tc  secretly 
perform  for  her  those  little  offices  which  the  sick  lady 
would  not,  in  her  pride,  acknowledge  that  she  needed,  but  with 
which  she  could  not  dispense ;  she  liked  even  those  dull  and 
silent  evenings  by  the  fireside,  whilst  Madame  Marceau  slept, 
— evenings  which,  though  so  quiet,  had  yet  a  dreamy  charm 
of  their  own. 

The  room  was  again  silent;  the  fire  was  burning  iow  ; 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  stooped  to  arrange  it ;  a  broad  jet  of 
flame  arose,  and  shed  its  light  on  Nathalie  and  her  book ;  but, 
as  if  this  light  annoyed  him,  he  drew  back  into  the  shade. 

"  Mademoiselle  Nathalie,"  said  he,  in  a  low  tone,  "  do  you 
ever  go  to  the  garden  now?" 

Nathalie  started  slightly ;  but,  without  looking  up  from 
her  book,  she  replied  in  the  same  key : 

'•  Not  often,  sir." 

"  .1  thought  so.  In  the  first  place,  I  never  see  you  there  ; 
in  the  second,  you  have  looked  pale  of  late.  Pray  take  a  little 
exercise ;  and  pray,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "  do  not  read 
thus  by  fire-light ;  it  is  bad  for  the  sight." 

Nathalie  neither  answered  nor  looked  up ;  but  a  furtive 
smile  trembled  on  her  lips. 

'•  I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  continued ;  "  but  you  are  mis- 
taken. I  was  not  reading  this  evening ;  I  read  a  page — no 
more  ;  nor,  to  say  the  truth,  do  I  imagine  that  you  have  been 
reading  much  yourself  For  the  last  week,  I  have  noticed  the 
progress  of  your  marker  through  the  philosophical  treatise  in 
your  hands ;  you  have  travelled  exactly  twelve  pages,  which 
makes  less  than  two  pages  an  evening." 
Nathalie  hastily  closed  the  volume. 

'•  Now,"  resumed  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  "  if  you  were  not 
so  proud,  you  would  long  ago  have  asked  me  for  something  to 


248  NATHALIE. 

read  more  interesting  than  that  Jansenist  Nicole.  Since  yott 
do  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  it,  I  assure  you  I  have  a  well- 
stocked  library,  and  if  you  will  only " 

"  Armand,"  feebly  said  the  voice  of  Madame  Marceau, 
"  why  are  you  in  the  dark?" 

"  Lest  the  lamp  should  annoy  you,  Rosalie;  we  will  have 
it  lit  now." 

Ho  rang  the  bell  as  he  spoke ;  the  servant  entei-ed ;  and 
tlie  lamp  was  lit. 

"  Aiid  you  actually  remained  in  the  dark  all  this  time,  on 
my  account  V  resumed  Madame  Marceau,  addressing  her 
brother,  who  now  stood  by  her  couch,  in  the  same  languid  tone. 

"  The  room  was  not  dark,"  said  he,  very  briefly. 

"  Trae  ;  beside  you  were  always  fond  of  sitting  thus  by 
the  fire-side.  Do  not  these  evenings  remind  you  of  other 
evenings  long  ago,  Armand  ?" 

"  Do  you  feel  better?"  abruptly  asked  Monsieivr  de  Sain- 
ville. 

"  Much  better ;  these  evening  slumbers  compensate  for 
my  bad  nights ;  and  did  I  not  fear  they  inconvenienced 
you " 

"  If  they  did,  I  could  leave  the  room." 

"  But  it  is  like  your  kindness  to  stay.  Dear  Armand !" 
and  Madame  Marceau  pressed  the  hand  of  her  brother  very 
gratefully.  "  Oh  !  and  you,  too,  stayed,  chere  Petite,"  she 
added,  addressing  Nathalie  in  a  tone  of  surprise,  and  half-raio- 
ing  herself  on  one  elbow  to  look  at  the  young  girl ;  - 1  thought 
you  wei'e  gone  to  see  my  poor  aunt,  whilst  I  slept." 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  at  his  sister  ;  the  light  of  the 
lamp  fell  on  her  pale  features,  over  which  now  lingered  a  forced 
smile  that  agreed  little  with  the  dark,  feverish,  and  yet  eager 
gleam  of  her  sunken  eyes.  From  her  he  glanced  to  Nathalie ; 
the  same  light  fell  on  her  countenance :  she,  too,  was  pale,  but 
of  the  pallor  that  gives  a  more  delicate  and  subdued  grace. 
She  had  risen  on  being  thus  addressed,  and  now  stood  opposite 
him  at  the  foot  of  the  sick  lady's  couch,  eyeing  her  with  a  kind 
compassionate  glance,  and  smiling,  as  she  answered,  quietly: 

"  I  never  imagined  you  would  sleep  so  long  ;  but  I  am  truly 
glad  you  did  sleep :  it  will  do  you  so  much  good." 

'•Yes,  Petite,  it  will,"  slowly  answered  Madame  Marceau; 
flhe  gently  drew  Nathalie  towards  her,  made  her  sit  down  on 
the  edge  of  the  sofa,  and  taking  her  hand,  clasped  it  tenderly 
in  hers,  without  seeming  aware  that  by  so  doing  she  placed  it 


NATHALIE.  249 

almost  in  her  brother's  hand,  which  she  still  detained.  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville,  who  was  eyeing  the  fire  with  a  fixed  and  ab- 
stracted gaze,  never  moved  or  turned  round.  Nathalie  looked 
somewhat  disconcerted,  and  rose  quickly. 

"  Had  I  not  better  go  and  see  how  your  aunt  is  ?"  sho 
asked. 

'•  Yes,  Petite,  she  will  be  very  glad  to  see  you." 

The  look  of  Madame  Marceau  followed  the  young  girl  out 
of  the  room ;  her  brother  never  changed  his  attitude :  the  ex- 
pression of  his  features  was  severe,  and  almost  forbidding. 

"  She  is  my  good  angel."  sighed  his  sister.  He  did  not 
answer.  "  Do  you  not  think  so,  Armand  ?"  she  added  after  a 
pause. 

"  Think  what,  Rosalie  ?"  asked  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  slow- 
ly turning  round,  and  eyeing  her  quietly. 

"  Does  that  lamp  annoy  you  ?"  he  added,  as  she  shaded  her 
eyes  with  her  hand  ;  "  shall  I  move  the  screen  ?" 

"  If  you  please ;  the  light  is  painfully  bright." 

"Well,  Rosalie,  what  were  you  saying?" 

"  I  was  only  talking  about  Mademoiselle  IMontolieu." 

'•And  what  of  her?" 

"  She  is  a  good  child." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Armand,  I  do,"  said  Madame  Marceau,  turn^ 
ing  quickly  her  pale  eager  face  towards  her  brother. 

"  Well,  so  do  I,"  he  calmly  answered. 

There  was  a  pause.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  had  resumed 
his  book;  Madame  Marceau  was  tossing  restlessly  on  her 
couch. 

"  Armand,"  she  said,  at  length,  "  you  like  frankness,  do 
you  not?" 

"  I  do,"  was  the  emphatic  reply. 

"You  will,  therefore,  not  be  offended  at  a  plain  question?" 

"  No,  Rosalie,  certainly  not." 

"  Well,  then,  Armand.  how  do  you  like  Mademoiselle  Mon- 
tolieu?" 

"  Very  much,"  was  the  unhesitating  reply. 

Madame  Marceau  looked  at  her  brother,  and  gave  a  sigh 
of  relief 

"  I  am  so  glad — so  very  glad,"  she  said,  laying  some  stress 
on  the  word  '  glad,'  '•  because  you  see,  I  feared  quite  the  con- 
trary ; — indeed,  I  decidedly  thought  the  contrary.  I  imagined 
that  you  found  her  light,  frivolous,  and  capricious ;  that  you 

n* 


250  NATHALIE 

even  thought  her  more  heedless  than  her  youth  warrants :  that 
you,  so  calm  and  grave,  saw  with  displeasure  those  little  mani- 
festations of  temper  to  which  she  is  subject.  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  glad  I  am  to  find  that  I  was  mistaken,  which  I  was — was 
r  not?" 

"  You  certainly  were  mistaken." 

'•Well,  Armand,  you  always  spoke  so  very  coldly  to  h^r." 

"  I  am  of  a  cold  temperament." 

"  And  rather  severe.  Now,  I  think  the  faults  of  a  young 
girl  ought  to  be  treated  with  indulgence." 

"  Quite  true,"  quietly  replied  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ;  "  se- 
verity toward  youth  is  cruel." 

"  Besides,"  resumed  his  sister.  "  what  are  the  faults  of  tem- 
per, when  the  heart  is  good  ?" 

"  Nothing,  indeed." 

"  Then  you  think  she  has  faults  of  temper?"  quickly  said 
Madame  Marceau. 

"  I  never  said  so,  Rosalie.  You  remarked,  '  What  are 
faults  of  temper,  when  the  heart  is  good  V  I  replied,  '  Noth- 
ing, indeed.' " 

Madame  Marceau  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead  ;  she 
looked  thoughtful. 

"  Nothing."  she  resumed  ;  "  and  yet,  Armand,  in  a  wife,  for 
instance,  temper  is  no  trifle.'' 

"  Trifle  !"  seriously  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ;  '•  it  is  the 
very  first  thing  to  be  studied." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  inquired   his  sister,  with  an  anxious 
look  ;  "  is  that  your  real  opinion,  Armand  ?" 
■     "  My  conscientious  opinion,  Rosalie,"  was  the  grave  reply. 

"  And  beauty.     What  do  you  think  about  beauty  ?" 

"  In  what  sense  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Why,  beauty  in  a  wife ;  do  you  think  it  a  recommend- 
ation ?" 

'•  It  is  an  open  question  ;  I  have  known  men  who  would  not 
marry  a  woman  that  was  too  handsome ;  others  who  would 
have  none  but  a  pretty  wife." 

"  Do  you  think  Petite  too  handsome?" 

"  No,  certainlv  not." 

"  And  yet  she  is  very  pretty,  Armand  ?" 

"  Precisely  ;  that  is  why  I  do  not  think  her  too  handsome."' 

"  Well,  I  must  say  I  do  not  admire  her  unconditionally." 

"  Nor  do  I." 

"  She  is  very  dark." 


NATHALIE.  251 

"  She  is  decidedly  dark." 

"  And  that  curl  in  her  lip, — what  does  it  mean  ?" 

"  Pride." 

«  You  think  so  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

'•  But  pride  is  a  great  sin  ?"  said  Madame  Marceau,  with  » 
•ook  of  concern. 

'•  One  of  the  seven  capital  sins." 

Madame  Marceau  shook  her  head  and  sighed. 

"  3Io}i  Dicii !  Armand,"  she  gravely  said,  "  you  intrude  a 
painful  doubt  on  my  mind  ;  faults  of  temper,  beauty,  and  pride, 
are  dangerous  gifts,  and  form  a  dangerous  dowry." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  asked  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  with  his 
peculiar  smile. 

"  You  think  so,  Armand,  do  you  not  ?"  said  his  sister,  turn- 
ing towards  him  with  an  inquiring  glance. 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  Then  I  must  have  misunderstood  you  !" 

"  Quite  misunderstood  me,  Rosalie." 

"  Then,  Armand,  what  do  you  think  ?"  she  asked,  with  some 
asperity  ;  '•  but,  perhaps,"  she  added,  in  a  smoother  tone,  "  you 
object  to  this  question?" 

"  Not  at  all,  I  assure  you.  You  say  that  temper,  beauty, 
and  pride,  are  a  dangerous  dowry;  I  do  not  think  so:  temper 
produces  a  piquant  variety ;  beauty  is  pleasant ;  pride  is  irre- 
sistibly attractive." 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  how  I  did  misunderstand  you!"  observed 
Madame  Marceau,  using  her  vinaigrette,  and  speaking  with  a 
short  laugh ;  "  I  quite  thought  you  had  said  temper  was  the 
very  first  thing  to  be  studied." 

{^Precisely, — studied  ;  I  did  not  say  avoided.  No  man  has 
a  right  to  expect  that  his  wife  shall  be  a  mere  machine  ;  let  him, 
therefore,  study  her  temper." 

"  And  you  do  not  think  beauty  dangerous?" 

"•I  pity  the  man  that  thinks  so ;  I  pity  the  man  who,  being 
free  to  choose  between  two  women,  equal  in  other  respects,  has 
not  the  heart  to  choose  the  Landsomer  one  of  the  two." 

"  It  would  be  very  generous  to  take  the  plain  one,"  ironi- 
cally said  the  lady. 

"  It  would  be  heroic,  if  done  from  a  generous  motive  ;  mean 
and  paltry,  if  the  act  of  fear." 

"  And  you  do  not  object  to  pride  ?"  continued  Madame 
Marceau. 


252  NATHALIE. 

"I  do  not,  when  it  is  tempered  by  gentler  foeliugs ;  it  may 
indeed,  lead  to  much  that  is  foolish,  but  it  also  saves  from 
much  that  is  false  and  wrong." 

Madame  Marceau  did  not  answer ;  she  had  partly  raised 
herself  on  her  couch  ;  a  heap  of  cushions  supported  her ;  she 
looked  flushed,  and  fanned  herself  with  her  pocket-hand- 
kerchief 

"  I  misunderstood,  quite  misunderstood,"  she  said,  very 
briefly ;  '•  it  was  my  fault,  no  doubt,  but  still  I  perceive  that  I 
have  been  in  the  dark  all  along." 

Monfieur  de  Sainville  turned  quietly  round,  and  eyed  his 
sister  with  a  grave  and  earnest  glance. 

"  I  think,"  he  quietly  observed,  "  that  you  nave  at  least 
been  questioning  me  in  the  dark  ;  the  exact  purport  of  your 
questions  has  so  often  escaped  me.  that  1  may  have  answered 
them  imperfectly.  I  am  sorry  that  I  did  not  at  first  state 
plainly  what  I  am  going  to  state  now." 

His  sister  said  nothing,  but  she  slowly  turned  round,  ajd 
eyed  him  with  a  fixed  and  burning  look  ;  he  continued,  look- 
ing at  her  as  he  spoke : 

"  Namely,  that  although  I  recognize  in  no  person  the  right 
of  questioning  me,  yet  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  answer  any 
such  questions  as  it  shall  please  you  to  address  me,  and  I  be- 
forehand give  you  my  word  that,  no  matter  what  the  subject 
may  be,  the  answers  shall  be  as  full  and  explicit  as  even  you 
can  desire." 

Madame  Marceau  sank  back  on  her  scat,  turned  very  pale, 
and  app^.ied  her  vinaigrette.  Her  brother  took  no  notice  of 
her  emotion,  which  subsided  almost  immediately.  Far  from 
seeming  to  wish  to  avail  herself  of  the  privilege  awarded  to  her, 
she  hastily  exclaimed, — 

"  My  dear  Armand,  what  new  mistake  is  this  ?  Is  it  pos- 
sible you  imagine  me  so  indiscreet?  I  have,  indeed,  been 
mistaken,  but  very  agreeably  so.  We  agree  where  I  thought 
we  difi'ered, — a  true  source  of  pleasure  to  me,  for  every  day 
adds  to  my  affection  for  Petite." 

She  spoke  with  some  warmth.     He  rose,  and  said  quietly: 

"  Then  you  have  no  question  to  ask  of  me  V 

"  None,  Armand  ;  none,"  was  the  hurried  reply. 

He  left  the  room. 

Five  minutes  had  scarcely  elapsed,  when  Nathalie  entered. 
She  looked  at  Madame  Marceau  ;  the  lady  was  reclining  in  her 
old  attitude.     The  screen  shaded  her  face ;  Nathalie  could  not 


JfATHALIE.  255! 

ace  whether  she  really  slept  or  not.  She  concluded  that  she 
did,  from  her  silence.  Her  step  was  light,  and  could  scarcely 
be  beard  as  she  glided  across  the  carpeted  floor  to  resume  her 
place ;  but  instead  of  doing  so,  she  paused  near  the  table, 
within  the  brilliant  circle  of  light  shed  by  the  lamp.  The 
volunje  Monsieur  de  Sainville  had  been  reading  attracted  her 
attention ;  she  opened  it :  it  was  a  collection  of  treatises  on 
subjects  of  agriculture,  commerce,  and  political  economy.  The 
young  girl  turned  OA^er  a  few  pages,  then  laid  down  the  volume, 
with  that  curl  of  the  lip  which  had  attracted  the  notice  of  Ma- 
dame Marceau.  Her  own  book  was  lying  near  it ;  she  also 
took  it  up ;  it  opened  at  the  last  page  she  had  been  reading. 
She  looked  at  it  with  a  fixed,  abstracted  gaze, — scarcely  the 
gaze  of  one  who  read  ;  a  faint  tinge  of  color  rose  to  her  cheek, 
and  something  like  a  smile  broke  over  her  features.  At  length, 
she  closed  the  volume,  and,  turning  round,  beheld  the  pale  face 
and  glittering  eyes  of  Madame  Marceau  looking  at  her  over 
the  screen.  She  could  not  repress  a  start ;  for  though  she 
often  met  that  look,  rendered  more  keen  and  fixed  by  the 
illness  of  her  who  gazed,  it  ever  produced  in  her  the  same  first 
impression  of  uneasiness, — an  impression  which  she  always 
inwardly  reproved  when  it  had  subsided. 

"I  thought   you  were  asleep,"  said  she,  approaching  the 
couch. 

"  No,  I  was  not,"  was  the  low  reply. 

"  Do  you  feel  unwell  ?"  continued  Nathalie ;  for  the  sick 
lady  was  ghastly  pale. 

"  I  am  not  well.     I  was  looking  at   you :  what  were  you 
reading  V 

"  Nicole's  Moral  Essays." 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

Nathalie  smiled  demurely. 

"  No  favorite,  I  see.  Come  and  sit  here.  Petite,  so  that  I 
may  see  you ; — yes,  so,"  she  added,  as  Nathalie  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  her  couch  ;  and  the  sick  lady  caressingly  took  one 
of  the  young  girl's  hands  in  both  her  own,  and  looked  fixedly 
at  the  frank  and  open  face  before  her.  "  You  are  fond  of  read 
ing?"  she  resumed. 

"  Very  fond  indeed." 

"And  of  reading  by  the  fire-light:  it  is  pleasant,  is  it  not? 
Well,  what  are  you  looking  at?"  she  added,  as  Nathalie  turned 
round  somewhat  abruptly. 

"Is  not  that  fire  burning  low,  madamc?" 


254  NATHALIB. 

•'  But  the  room  is  warm,  Petite  ;  you  surely  do  not  feel 
:?old,  for  you  look  quite  flushed." 

Nathalie  did  not  reply. 

"  Armand  likes  it,  too,"  abstractedly  continued  Madamo 
Marceau ;  "  as  I  dare  say  you  have  observed,"  she  added,  after 
a  pause. 

"  No,"  hesitatingly  replied  Nathalie;  "  I  had  not  observed, 
— I — I  did  not  know." 

•'  AVhat !  am  I  mistaken  ?  Does  he  not  sit  reading  there 
every  evening?" 

"  I  mean,  madame,  that  I  did  not  know  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville  liked  it." 

"  He  does,  Petite, — he  does,"  said  the  lady,  in  a  low  tone ; 
'•  if  he  did  not,  woxild  he  stay  here  as  he  stays,  evening  after 
evening?" 

Nathalie  did  wot  answer  :  she  scarcely  seemed  to  have  heard 
Madame  Marceau.  She  still  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  couch  ;  her 
'eft  hand  held  by  the  sick  lady,  her  right  supporting  her  cheek  ; 
Iier  look  fastened  on  the  fire,  which,  notwithstanding  her  pre- 
vious assertion,  burned  brightly,  and  seemed  not  on  the  point 
of  dying  aivay.  She  looked  as  she  probably  felt, — in  a  dreamy, 
abstracted,  yet  not  unhappy  mood, — the  mood  in  which  youth 
welcomes  its  bright  fancies  and  still  brighter  hopes.  The  voice 
of  Madame  Blarceau,  always  rich  and  harmonious,  now  striking- 
ly so,  and  yet  not  without  a  touch  of  secret  sadness,  b/  oke  on 
her  reverie. 

"  It  is  a  deep  charm,  that  of  old  associations — deep,  and 
yet  sometimes  exquisitely  painful.  I  know  not  why  a  thought, 
or  rather  a  remembrance,  of  the  past  has  been  haunting  me 
the  whole  evening,  ever  since  I  awoke,  and  found  the  lamp  un- 
lit, and  Aruand  sitting  there  reading  by  the  fire-light,  and  as 
I  had  seen  him  many  a  time  long  ago ;  for  it  is  with  him  an 
old  and  favorite  habit." 

Nathalie  looked  up  silently,  but  listened,  as  if  bound  by  a 
spell. 

"  Years  have  passed  away,  but  the  charm  is  still  unbroken  ; 
the  old  habit  endures.  The  hearth,  that  to  others  looks  joyous 
and  bright,  is  to  me  as  a  spot  haunted  for  ever  by  a  secret  pre- 
sence. Is  it  harsh  to  wish  that  the  dead  should  be  forgotten, 
and  effaced  from  human  memory  ?  Yet,  if  I  could,  I  would  do 
this ;  and  had  I  the  power,  the  fabled  Lethe  should  yield  its 
deepest  draught,  and  quench  the  fever  of  one  wearied  spirit." 

She  no  longer  seemed  to  be  addressing  Nathalie,  and  -spoke 


NATHALIE.  255 

m  a  tone  so  low,  that  the  young  girl  could  scarcely  catch  the 
last  words,  though,  slightly  bending  forward,  she  listened  with 
eager  attention.  She  looked  round,  and  gave  Madame  Mar- 
ceau  a  searching  but  unavailing  glance  ;  the  meaning  of  that 
face  was  not  one  she  could  read.  There  was  a  long  silence. 
At  length,  Nathalie  left  the  couch,  drew  a  chair  to  the  table. 
and  resumed  her  book  ;  but  after  reading  a  few  pages  with  fe- 
verish haste,  she  closed  the  volume  and  took  up  her  embroid- 
ery. It  failed,  however,  in  rivetting  her  attention ;  for  ere 
long,  she  laid  it  by,  rose  from  her  seat,  and  went  up  to  one  of 
the  window  recesses.  After  remaining  there  some  time,  she 
returned  to  the  fireside,  and  standing  on  the  hearth-rug,  looked 
long  and  fixedly  at  the  burning  logs  of  wood.  When  she 
turned  round,  she  again  met  the  look  of  Madame  Mai-ceau,  who 
seemed  to  be  eyeing  her  attentively. 

"  Petite,"  she  softly  said,  '•  you  do  not  look  well  this  eve- 
ning. I  fear  this  is  a  very  dull  life  you  lead  here.  Alas  ! 
what  has  youth  to  do  with  tho^e  who  have  unhappily  lost  all 
sympathy  with  its  feelings.  My  poor  child  !  we  are  too  old, 
too  grave,  too  sorrowful  for  you." 

'•  Too  sorrowful,  madame  ?"  said  Nathalie  with  a  faint  smile 
but  a  somewhat  wistful  and  anxious  glance. 

'•  Yes,  Petite,  too  sorrowful,"   gravely  replied  the  lady. 

Nathalie  looked  at  her  almost  inquiringly,  but  Madame 
Marceau  averted  her  glance  and  spoke  no  more.  She  retired 
early,  supported  out  of  the  room  by  Amanda,  and  leaving;  the 
young  girl  alone  as  usual. 

It  was  a  habit  she  had  taken  since  the  illness  of  Madame 
Marceau ;  there  was  for  her  a  charm,  deep,  though  undefined, 
in  the  solitary  possession  of  that  old  drawing-room,  where  no 
one  ever  came  after  the  sick  lady  had  retired.  In  order  to  se- 
cure herself  against  intrusion,  Nathalie-  had  even  asked  and 
obtained,  that  the  task  of  extinguishing  the  lamp,  and  of  al- 
lowing the  fire  to  die  slowly  away  on  the  hearth,  might  be  left 
to  her  care. 

The  most  sociable  minds,  those  whom  the  quick  animated 
converse  delights  most,  often  turn  to  solitude,  with  feverish  and 
impassioned  longing.  There  was  to  Nathalie  something  pain- 
fully oppressive  in  the  constant  society  of  Madame  Marceau. 
It  was  not  that  the  lady  spoke  much,  or  that  her  discourse  wea- 
ried— far  from  it ;  she  spoke  little  and  seldom,  on  trite  sub- 
jects ;  but  she  was  there,  ever  there,  with  her  quick  restless  look 
still   following   every  motion   of  her  young  companion  ;  and 


25C  NATHALIE. 

there  came  moments  when  Nathalie  longed  to  be  away,  when 
Bhe  thought  of  dark  and  lonely  places,  as  a  prisoner  thinks  of 
escape  and  liberty — when  her  spirit  literally  thirsted  for  an 
hour's  communion  with  solitude.  When  that  hour  came  at 
length,  she  enjoyed  it  with  a  pleasure  only  the  more  keen  from 
being  so  brief.  There  was  an  old  arm-chair,  vast  enough  to 
contain  her  entirely  ;  she  ensconced  herself  in  its  deep  recesses, 
extinguished  the  lamp,  buried  her  head  in  her  hands,  and 
listened  to  the  dull  monotonous  sound  of  the  winter  rain  pat- 
tering against  the  window-panes,  or  to  the  spirit-voice  of  the 
wind,  now  low  and  deep  like  a  stifled  plaint,  now  rising  loud 
and  wrathful,  as  if  holding  angry  contest  with  some  foe  like  it- 
self, mysterious  and  unseen.  Sometimes  a  strange  and  not 
unpleasing  fear  came  over  the  mind  of  the  young  girl:  she 
looked  up  chill  and  shivering;  the  fire  was  low,  the  room  looked 
vast  and  indistinct,  the  ceiling  seemed  lost  in  its  own  height, 
the  mirrors  opened  deep  vistas  into  endless  and  mysterious 
chambers,  extending  far  away,  all  filled  with  the  same  solemn 
and  shadowy  gloom.  But  Nathalie  was  not  superstitious  ;  thia 
obscurity  awed  but  never  terrified  her ;  she  was  indeed  con- 
scious of  a  slight  degree  of  fear,  but  of  a  fear  which  she  subdued 
and  which  there  was  even  a  certain  pleasure  in  thus  subduing. 
Gradually  the  feeling  vanished  ;  she  thought  no  longer  of  fall- 
ling  rain  or  murmuring  wind,  of  shadowy  chambers  and  le- 
gendary lore,  but  she  listened  invariably  to  the  wonderful  and 
endless  romance,  which  her  own  thoughts  had  framed  from  the 
dreams  that  haunt  the  brain  and  trouble  the  heart  of  longing 
and  ardent  youth.  And  every  evening  that  tale,  with  its  im- 
aginary scenes,  passions,  and  characters,  became  more  deep  and 
thrilling ;  but  on  none  did  it  seem  to  draw  nearer  to  a  close, 
as  vague  and  mysterious  as  the  unknown  future  it  shadowed 
forth  to  the  dreaming"  girl. 

But  this  evening  was  not  spent  like  the  rest :  the  lamp  was 
not  extinguished,  the  chair  was  not  drawn  fo-rth.  Nathalie  sat 
on  the  couch  where  Madame  Marceau  had  been  reclining,  and 
her  look  wandered  slowly  over  the  whole  room,  as  if  it  were  a 
place  that  look  beheld  for  the  first  time.  This  quiet  salon  waa 
very  old  ;  it  had  known  many  guests — masters  they  might  call 
themselves,  and  be  called  by  others, — but  what  were  they,  save 
the  guests  of  a  few  years,  who  silently  departed  one  by  one,  to 
be  replaced  by  other  guests,  whose  sojourn  was  as  brief,  whose 
memory  was  as  speedily  forgotten?  This  had  been  the  scene 
of  their  chief  passion — vanity  and  pride  ;  chief,  but  not  all,  fol 


KATIIALIE.  257 

surely  many  a  story  of  man's  gentler  feelings  was  linked  with 
that  old  room,  with  that  silent  hearth  near  which  Nathalie  no-v? 
sat,  a  lonely  and  dependent  girl.  She  shaded  her  eyes  with 
her  hand  ;  broken  words,  whose  meaning  she  had  divined,  hints 
which  she  had  been  apt  to  read,  had  long  ago  told  her  a  tale 
which  her  own  thoughts  had  since  then  repeated  to  her  many 
a  time,  seldom  so  forcibly  as  now.  A  picture  rose  before  her, 
greeting  that  inward  eye,  which  may  be  the  torment,  as  well 
as  the  bliss,  of  solitude ;  and  never  did  limner's  art  draw  outr 
lines  more  distinct,  or  paint  hues  more  vivid.  She  saw  the  old 
hearth :  the  fire  burned  brightly ;  it  cast  its  changing  light  to 
the  furthest  end  of  the  room — it  illumed  its  deepest  recesses  ; 
but  above  all,  it  fell  on  two, — a  youth  and  maiden,  who  both  sat 
near  it.  Nathalie  knew  that  pale  and  severe  face,  even  though 
it  was  younger  than  now,  with  fewer  lines  of  care  on  its  brow, 
and  something  more  kindly  in  its  glance.  And  the  maiden, 
too,  she  knew  ;  for  her  features,  though  never  beheld  by  actual 
sight,  were  not  yet  unknown.  She  knew  that  serene  brow, 
shaded  by  fair  clustering  hair;  those  soft  blue  eyes,  those 
parted  and  smiling  lips,  that  neck  of  swan-like  grace ;  and 
never,  as  she  sat  there  in  the  firelight  glow,  did  fairer  and 
more  ideal  vision  greet  a  lover's  enamored  gaze.  Nor  did  he, 
who  now  looked  on  her,  seem  cold  or  unmoved  ;  words  fell  from 
his  lips — words  which  she  who  looked  on  could  never  hear, 
strive  as  she  would,  but  whose  meaning  she  read  in  the 
maiden's  downcast  look  and  blushing  cheek.  Here  the  dream 
ceased  abruptly 

"  I  believe  I  have  forgotten  my  book,"  said  a  calm  voice. 

Nathalie  looked  up  with  a  sudden  start ;  it  was  Monsieur 
de  Sainville.  who  had  entered  unheard,  and  now  stood  near  the 
table  on  which  lay  the  book  he  had  been  reading.  He  took  it 
up,  opened  it,  and  marked  some  passages  with  a  pencil.  The 
perfect  seriousness  of  his  manner,  as  he  stood  there,  wholly 
wrapped  in  his  occupation,  and  without  so  much  as  looking  to- 
wards her,  at  once  restored  Nathalie  to  composure.  He  at 
length  closed  the  book,  turned  away  from  the  table,  but  had 
not  gone  away  more  than  a  few  paces,  when  he  eame  back  agaiUi 
and  said : 

"  Mademoiselle  Montoliou,  I  have  a  ftivor  to  ask  of  you." 

Nathalie  looked  up. 

"  A  favor,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes.  a  favor  ;  but  you  must  promise  beforehand  to  gi'sni 
it." 


258  NATHALIE. 

''  No  promise  is  needed,  sir,"  she  ceremoniously  replied ; 
"  since  it  must  be  something  quite  out  of  my  power  for  me  not 
to  gratify  you." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  he,  without  seeming  to  heed  her  reserved 
manner,  '•  promise  me  that  you  will  not  remain  so  closely  con- 
fined to  this  room  as  you  have  done  of  late.  I  have  noticed 
with  concern  the  change  in  your  appearance ;  you  are  now  habit- 
ually pale,  which  is  not  natural  to  you  :  you  are  extremely  pale 
this  evening.  Pray  be  careful ;  it  is  at  your  age  that  the 
seeds  of  future  disease  are  often  unconsciously  sown, — that  the 
health,  grace,  and  bloom  of  youth  are  often  lost  for  ever." 

"  But  I  assure  you,  sir,"  hesitatingly  replied  Nathalie, "  that 
I  am  not  ill." 

"  No,  you  are  not;  I  know  it:  but  you  are  preparing  for  111 
health.  When  do  you  leave  this  room?  seldom  or  ever.  I  want 
your  promise,  your  word,  that  this  shall  not  continue." 

Nathalie  did  not  answer. 

"  What !  do  you  refuse  V 

"  No,  sir."  V 

"  Then  v/ill  you  give  me  your  word  to  take  a  walk  to-mor* 
row?" 

"  Very  well,  sir  ;  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  will." 

She  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  without  raising  her  look  or  chang- 
:.ng  her  attitude;  nor  did  he  glance  towards  her.  He  stood  on 
t^e  hearth-rug,  one  elbow  leaning  on  the  low  marble  mantel- 
shelf; his  look  fixed  on  the  mirror,  which  gave  back  the  whole 
room  from  its  furthest  extremity  to  the  motionless  figure  of  the 
young  girl.  He  eyed  her  thus  somewhat  thoughtfully.  He  was 
not  in  error,  when  he  said  that  Nathalie  was  changed  ;  she  had 
grown  both  thin  and  pale,  and  as  she  sat  there,  the  drooping 
languor  of  her  attitude  struck  him  forcibly.  An  anxious  ex- 
pression overspread  his  features  ;  he  seemed  on  the  point  of  ad- 
dressing her,  when  something  he  saw  in  the  mirror  attracted 
his  attention. 

"  Come  in,"  said  he,  so  abruptlj',  that  Nathalie  looked  up  at 
once. 

He  had  turned  towards  the  door  ;  the  contraction  of  hia 
brow,  though  slight,  yet  announced  displeasure,  as  the  door 
opened  and  admitted  Amanda. 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  in  at  once  ?"  he  briefly  asked. 

"I  was  afraid  of  disturbing  monsieur,"  replied  Amanda, 
ever  cool  and  self-possessed. 

'•  Is  madarae  Marceau  unwell  ?"  inquired  Nathalie,  rising 


NATHALIE.  259 

"J^o:  madamc  was  not  worso,  thank  lieaveu.  Madame 
had  only  left  her  vinaigrette,  and  sent  her  for  it,  lest  she 
should  want  it  in  the  night." 

But  the  vinaigrette,  though  sought  for  every  where  in  and 
under  the  couch,  was  not  to  be  found. 

'•  Mon  Dieu .'"  observed  Amanda,  with  great  simplicity, 
"  I  should  not  wonder  if  it  were  in  madame's  room  after  all." 

Another  fruitless  search  convinced  the  fcmme  cle  chamhre 
that  such  was  the  case,  and  with  a  neat  little  apology  for  her 
intrusion,  she  left  the  room.  From  the  moment  of  her  en- 
trance Monsieur  de  Sainville  had  resumed  his  book,  and  he 
did  not  look  up,  either  during  the  search,  or  after  Amanda's 
ileparture.  Nathalie,  who  felt  slightly  embarrassed  by  the 
continuance  of  his  presence,  resumed  the  search — which  was 
not,  however,  very  sincere — for  the  missing  vinaigrette. 

"  Do  not  give  yourself  useless  trouble,"  said  Monsieur  dc 
Sainville,  quietly  looking  up,  "  I  now  remember,  that  when  I 
left  my  sister's  room  before  coming  down  here  to  look  for  this 
book,  I  saw  that  vinaigrette  lying  on  her  dressing-table. 
Amanda  will  see  it  the  first  thing  on  going  in." 

Nathalie  gave  him  a  quick  look  of  surprise,  but  his  counte- 
nance was  perfectly  calm  and  composed  :  he  closed  his  book 
and  continued — 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  forget  your  promise." 

'•  No,  sir,  I  shall  not." 

He  bade  her  good  evening,  then  suddenly  came  back,  and 
observed : 

"  But  pray  do  not  take  too  long  a  walk,  Mademoiselle  Mon- 
tolieu  ;  you  are  not  very  strong  ;  besides,  it  is  air,  not  fatigue, 
tl-.at  you  want." 

lie  was  gone  ;  the  door  closed  behind  him  ;  his  receding 
step  was  heard,  then  ceased  ;  but  Nathalie  did  not  move  from 
the  spot  where  she  stood,  wrapped  in  a  dream-like  trance. 
She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  and  sought  to  recall  the 
picture  his  entrance  had  broken ;  but  the  outlines  were  indis- 
tinct and  dim — the  hues  had  faded  away.  Instead  of  the 
youth,  she  saw  the  serious,  yet  kind  face  which  had  looked  on 
her  awhile  ago  ;  the  maiden  who  had  seemed  so  fair,  was  now 
a  pale  vision,  as  colorless  and  dim  as  the  past  of  which  she 
formed  a  part.  On  that  loveliness,  erewhilo  so  bright,  had 
fallen  the  dark  Lethe-likc  shadow  of  forgctfulness  and  the 
grave. 


260  NATHALIE. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


The  following  morn'mg  was  mild  and  sunny,  and  no  soonci 
had  Nathalie  entered  the  drawing-room,  than  Madame  Mar- 
ceau  said  so,  and  urged  her  to  take  a  walk.  "  It  would  do  her 
80  much  good.'' 

Nathalie  assented  with  some  surprise  at  the  unusual  atten^ 
tion.  Scarcely  had  she  left  the  room,  when  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville  received  a  message  from  his  sister,  who  wished  to  speak  to 
him.  AVhen  he  came,  she  apologized  in  a  tone  of  concern, 
"  for  interfering  with  his  moi'ning  walk,  for  she  knew  this  was 
his  hour ;  but  she  wished  to  speak  to  him  on  a  matter  of  inte- 
rest ;"  and  again  she  apologized  -  for  preventing  his  morning 
walk." 

"  As  I  am  going  to  Marmont,  it  is  of  no  consequence,"  said 
he,  taking  a  seat  and  assuming  a  listening  attitude. 

But  the  communication  Madame  Marceau  had  to  make  to 
her  brother  will  appear  afterwards. 

Before  proceeding  to  the  garden,  Nathalie  called  on  her 
old  friend.  She  found  her  disconsolate  and  shivering  by  the 
fire-side. 

"  What  a  mild,  sunny  morning !"  cheerfully  said  Nathalie. 

"  Mild  !  All  the  mild  weather  was  gone  for  ever.  The 
world  was  getting  older  every  day,  and  as  for  the  sun " 

Nathalie  interrupted  her  by  drawing  back  the  curtain,  and 
the  sun  poured  in  a  light  so  radiant,  and  a  warmth  so  genial 
and  penetrating,  that  the  Canoness,  fairly  beaten  on  that  point, 
retrenched  herself  within  the  position,  "  that  the  "^vorld  was 
grawing  older  and  older  every  day.'' 

Nathalie  placed  on  the  little  table,  by  Aunt  Radegonde's 
arm-chair,  a  vase  full  of  fresh  spring  flowers ;  mute  yet  elo- 
quent protests  of  the  ever-renewed  life  and  freshness  of  na- 
ture. 

"  They  will  die,"  said  the  Canoness ;  '•  every  thing  must 
die  ;  it  is  not  only  older  the  world  gets,  but  more  dismal  every 
day." 

Nathalie  began  to  sing  a  gay  Provencal  song, — gay,  yet 
not  without  a  touch  of  old  romance.  The  sounds  stirred  the 
emulation  of  Aunt  Radegonde's  canary,  which  raised  its  voice 
in  loud  and  angry  rivalry.  Amused  at  the  contest,  Nathalie 
yuickened  her  singing ;  but  the  faster  she  sang,  the  faster  did 


NATHALIE.  26' 

tlic  canaiy  pour  forth  his  notes  in  brilliant  succession,  until  at 
length  the  Provencal  song  was  finished,  and,  in  his  own  esteem, 
the  bird  remained  victor. 

"  There !"  cried  Nathalie,  turning  her  flushed  face  and 
sparkling  eyes  towards  the  Canoness  ;  "  the  sunshine,  the  flow- 
ers, the  very  bird  himself  bears  witness  against  you." 

"  Oh !  Petite,  it  is  you,  who  are  better  than  sunshine^ 
flowers,  or  bird  in  a  house,"  the  Canoness  observed ;  and  the 
unnatural  gloom  which  had  of  late  overcast  her  features,  gra- 
dually left  them  as  she  looked  at  the  young  girl,  with  her 
brow  so  clear,  her  look  so  hopeful,  her  smile  so  bright,  and 
around  her  linsrerinfir  still  all  the  delightful  warmth  and  radi- 
ance  of  her  years.  She  would  have  added,  '•  happy  ae  who 
shall  have  so  gay  and  cheerful  a  creature  !"  had  she  not  felt 
checked  by  the  memory  of  her  anti-matrimonial  exhortations 

"  And  the  book,  Marraine  1"  coaxingly  said  Nathalie. 

"  Yes,  I  have  looked  for  it,  and  there  it  is  ou  the  table.  It 
was  Armand's  copy  once,  and  he  was  very  fond  of  it,  as  I  told 
you ;  but  it  puzzles  me  to  think  why  you  care  for  such  dry 
reading." 

"  I  have  long  wished  to  read  it,"  said  Nathalie,  eagerly 
slipping  a  small  duodecimo  into  her  pocket. 

"  Well,  you  may  have  it ;  I  should  not  lend  you  a  novel ; 
but  maxims  can  do  you  no  harm." 

The  face  of  the  Canoness  fell  when  she  perceived  that  the 
young  girl  was  not  going  to  stay ;  but  she  was  comforted 
when  Nathalie  kissed  her,  and  promised  to  call  in  the  evening. 

The  morning  was  lovely,  the  garden  looked  green  and 
beautiful,  and,  as  Nathalie  ran  lightly  down  the  gravel-walks, 
she  wondered  in  her  heart  if  Aunt  Ptadegonde  spoke  truly :  if 
the  world  was  indeed  growing  old  !  To  her  it  had  never  seemed 
so  fresh  and  young  as  on  that  spring  morning.  After  wan- 
dering a  long  time  over  the  garden  and  the  grounds,  she  came 
to  the  green-house.  It  was  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  favorite 
resort,  but  the  hour  for  his  walk  was  past ;  Nathalie,  there- 
fore, lingered  there  without  fear  of  meeting  him. 

After  admiring,  leisurely,  the  fresh  and  fragrant  flowers 
gathered  together,  she  sat  down  on  the  low  stone  seat  afi"orded 
by  the  embrasure  of  the  arched  window.  It  had  been  parti}' 
opened  to  admit  the  genial  breath  of  noon-day  to  the  flowers 
and  plants  within  ;  an  almond-tree  growing  outside  intercepted 
the  sunbeams,  and  threw  its  light  waving  shadow  on  the  fea- 
tures of  Nathalie,  as  she  reclined  back,  looking  idl}'  out.  watch- 


262  NATHALIE. 

jng  the  shadows  that  passed  swiftly  over  the  waving  grass,  and 
listening  to  the  low  voice  of  the  wind  passing  through  tho 
rustling  branches  of  the  neighboring  pine-trees. 

She  had  not  been  long  thus  when  she  suddenly  remembered 
the  book  she  had  taken  away.  She  quickly  took  it  out,  and 
looked  eagerly  over  every  page  ;  now  pausing  long  over  some 
passage,  now  passing  on  hastily,  and  still  looking  graver  as 
she  read.  The  volume  which  she  thus  perused  on  that  spring 
morning  was  not  one  of  those  tales  of  love  or  wild  romance, 
the  delight  of  youth,  and  often,  too,  of  maturer  years,  but  one 
of  the  most  dreary  and  mournful  records  ever  yielded  by  the 
history  and  experience  of  a  human  heart, — the  Maxims  of  La 
Rochefoucauld.  A  few  of  the  maxims  were  underlined  ;  three 
of  those  thus  desitrnated  struck  Nathalie : — 

o 

"  A  man  may  love  like  a  madman,  not  like  a  fool." 

"  Tliere  are  few  women  whose  merit  outlives  their  beauty " 

"  True  love  is  hke  spu'its :  spoken  of  by  all ;  seen  by  few."' 

"What!  still  reading  Nicole?"  said  the  voice  of  Monsieur 
de  Sainville. 

Nathalie  looked  up  ;  he  stood  smiling  before  her.  She  co- 
lored ;  hastily  jumped  down  from  her  seat,  and  in  her  haste 
dropped  the  book.  He  picked  it  up,  and  immediately  looked 
up  into  her  face,  with  a  glance  both  searching  and  surprised. 

"  La  Rochefoucauld  !  you  read  La  Rochefoucauld  !  And 
the  copy  looks  well  worn, — a  favorite  author,  no  doubt.  Oh  ! 
you  true  daughter  of  Eve  !  could  you  not  wait  for  such  bitter 
fruit  ?" 

There  was  slight  bitterness  in  his  tone  as  he  spoke  thus, 
turning  over  the  pages  of  the  volume.  Something  ho  saw 
struck  him. 

"Where  did  you  get  this  book,  child?"  he  asked,  in  a 
wholly  altered  tone. 

"  From  Madame  de  Sainville.  sir." 

"  My  aunt !  A  strange  relic  for  her  to  keep,  and  a  strange 
book  to  lend  to  you."  He  very  deliberately  put  the  volume 
into  his  pocket,  looked  up,  and  steadily  eyeing  Nathalie,  said, 
in  a  tone  between  jest  and  earnest : 

"  I  confiscate  La  Rochefoucauld.  Though  this  copy  has 
not  been  in  my  hands  for  years,  it  is  nevertheless  my  proper- 
ty ;  besides,  I  do  not  wish  you  to  read  it.  For  heaven's  sake, 
keep  to  all  that  girls  delight  in:  leave  La  Rochefouca-ild  to 


NATHALIE.  263 

graver  heads,  older  minds,  and  sadder  hearts.     Keep,  I  pray, 
to  novels  and  poetry, — the  proper  food  of  eighteen." 

A  disdainful  smile  curled  Nathalie's  lip,  as  she  replied : 

'•  Novels,  poetry,  and  so  forth,  are  the  sweetmeats,  the  hon- 
bona  fit  for  us  poor  girls  of  eighteen  !     How  flattering  !'' 

"  You  crave  strong  food  1  Be  satisfied,  you  shall  have  it 
soon. — much  too  soon." 

She  did  not  answer.     He  continued  : 

"  I  have  deprived  you  of  your  book  :  allow  me  then  to  send 
you  something  from  my  library  this  afternoon." 

"  Novels  and  poetry  ?"  demurely  asked  Nathalie. 

"  Yes  ;  novels  and  poetry.  Do  you  imagine  I  never  read 
either  1  Why,  the  intellectual  repast  must  always  have  a  des- 
sert." 

"  And  the  dessert  is,  of  course,  fit  for  a  girl  of  eighteen  !" 
observed  Nathalie,  in  a  quick,  nettled  tone. 

"  Nay,  as  to  that,  you  may  have  all,  if  you  like.  Do  you 
incline  towards  political  economy,  or  take  any  interest  in  agri- 
culture ?  Are  you  pleased  with  statistics  ?  Pray  choose.  I 
regret  not  to  possess  any  interesting  works  on  history,  or  some 
amusing  books  of  travel ;  but  I  have  little  faith  in  historical 
lore,  and  have  ti'avelled  too  much  myself  to  care  aibout  the 
travelling  experiences  of  others.  My  books  are  thus  either 
very  grave  or  very  light.     Which  do  you  prefer  ?" 

"  Which  ever  you  please,  sir.  Some  interesting  discussion 
on  the  manufacturing  systei;^ ;  or  on  the  best  method  of  fiitten- 
ing  cattle  ;  or  on  the  present  plan  of  cultivating  land  in  small 
farms  ; — any  thing,  in  short,  equally  instructive,  elevating,  or 
delightful." 

"  You  are  resentful.  Seriously,  did  you  like  La  Rochefou- 
cauld so  very  much  ?" 

Nathalie  shrugged  her  shoulders  carelessly  ;  "  she  did  not 
know  ;  she  had  not  read  much." 

"  Did  you  wish  to  read  more  V 

She  felt  perfectly  indifi'erent  on  that  subject. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  This  book,  true  in  somo 
respects,  false  in  others,  could  only  taint  the  freshness  of  your 
mind.  Had  I  simply  warned  you  against  it.  you  would  have 
sat  up  all  night,  sooner  than  leave  it  unread.  I  took  it  into 
custod}'  at  once  ;  for  I  know  that  you  have  too  daring  and  in- 
quiring a  spirit  to  be  deterred  by  trifles  ; — witness  the  adven 
tare  of  the  berries." 

She  did  not  reply       She  stood  before  him,  witli  blushing 


26i  NATHALIE. 

and  lialf-avcrted  face  ;  oue  baud  supporting  her  cheek,  the  other 
stripping  a  fine  laurel  of  its  leaves.  He  stood  between  her 
and  the  door,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  her  embarrassment.  There 
was  a  brief  silence. 

"  What  are  you  doing  to  my  poor  laurel  ?"  he  suddenly 
exclaimed. 

Nathalie  started,  turned  round,  and  seeing  the  floor  cov- 
ered with  the  leaves  of  the  injured  shrub,  she  looked  up,  with 
a  frightened  glance,  into  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  face.  He 
assumed  a  displeased  air ;  and  she  tried  to  look  remorseful. 

'•  Do  you  use  shrubs  thus  ?"  he  asked  j  "  if  so,  how  shall  T 
protect  mine  ?"' 

"  Lock  the  door,  sir." 

She  glided  past  him,  and  stepped  out  as  she  spoke. 
•'  Judicious  advice,  which  cannot  too  soon  be  followed,"  he 
replied,  following  her  out,  and  locking  the  door  of  the  green- 
house. 

Nathalie  looked  disconcerted,  as  he  composedly  walked  by 
her  side.  In  her  first  moment  of  confusion,  she  had  not  taken 
the  path  leading  to  the  chateau,  but  a  sheltered  avenue  of  firs, 
in  a  contrary  direction.  The  ground  was  bare  of  grass,  but 
the  fallen, foliage  of  the  firs  rendered  it  as  soft  and  warm  as 
a  carpet;  golden  gleams  lit  up  the  dark  trunks  and  darker 
masses  of  those  northern  trees,  in  harmony  with  the  chilliness 
latent  in  the  air  of  a  spring  morning.  Seeing  that  her  compan- 
ion did  not  speak,  Nathalie  resolutely  opened  the  conversation 
by  alluding  to  the  beauty  of  the  weather, — that  fertile  topic  in 
doubtful  climates.     He  smiled,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  There  is  something  very  pleasant  in  the  quiet  freshness  of 
Normandy,"  she  continued. 

"  You  like  Normandy  ?"  said  he,  with  a  keen,  inquiring 
glance  ;  "  you, — a  native  of  the  south,  accustomed  to  a  warm 
sun,  and  its  deeper  dyes ; — you  admire  our  green  little  prov- 
ince, so  calm,  so  common-place  V 

Nathalie  looked  surprised  at  this  slighting  tone. 
"  I  understand,"  he  resumed,  interpreting  the  expression 
of  her  countenance  with  his  usual  ease  ;  "  why  do  I  stay  in  a 
place  about  which  I  seem  to  care  so  little  ?  Well  if  I  remain 
here,  it  is  not  precisely  because  I  like  Normandy,  or  even 
Sainville,  though  both  are  endeared  to  me  by  family  recollec- 
tions ;  it  is  because  I  know,  my  child,  that  it  is  good  for  the 
home  of  man  to  be  like  his  happiness, — common-place  and 
calm.  Have  you  read  enough  of  La  Rochefoucauld  to  agree 
with  mo  there  V 


NATHALIE.  265 

Nathalie  did  not  choose  to  answer  the  latter  remark. 

"  Normandy  is  beautiful,"  she  said  ;  "  yet  I  should  prefer  a 
purer  sky  and  a  warmer  sun.'' 

'•  You  like  the  south  :  so  do  I ;  but  not  to  reside  in.  That 
endless  revel  of  nature,  with  skies  ever  blue,  and  air  ever  balm, 
enervates  the  soul.  Man  is  not  himself,  when  he  has  nothing 
against  which  he  may  strive.  Life  is  not,  or  should  not  be,  a 
day  of  summer  sunshine,  to  be  spent  in  voluptuous  enjoyment. 
Have  you  never,  in  imagination,  contrasted  a  soft  southern 
climate  with  the  desolate  north,  with  icy  seas  blending  at  the 
norizon  with  skies  scarcely  less  black?  Have  you  not  thought 
of  those  solitary  and  rock-bound  shores,  of  those  wild  and  bar- 
ren regions  seen  through  the  falling  snow ;  where  the  sun  looks 
pale  and  dim  as  the  moon  of  our  temperate  regions,  where  a 
plant  can  hardly  grow,  and  man  can  scarcely  dwell,  but  which 
have  a  solemn  and  melancholy  charm  that  lives  in  the  memory, 
when  the  verdant  earth,  the  serene  sky,  and  azure  seas  of  the 
south  are  forgotten  1" 

He  spoke  with  a  fervor  verging  on  enthusiasm. 

Nathalie  eyed  him  wistfully. 

"  It  must  be  very  cold  there,  sir,"  she  said,  with  a  slight 
shiver  ;  "  I  like  the  sun — the  sun  of  the  south,  I  mean." 

"  That  is  to  say,  not  the  sun  of  our  poor  Normandy." 

Nathalie  did  not  answer. 

"  Now,  seriously,"  he  continued,  "  what  is  there  amiss  with 
our  province  ?  Its  verdure  is  noted ;  it  is  a  green,  pleasant 
nook  enough;  and  if  the  sky  is  sometimes  overcast,  there  are 
plenty  of  dwellings  to  give  shelter.  Take  Sainville,  for  in- 
stance ;  you  like  Sainville,  do  you  not  ?"  he  abruptly  added. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  replied,  somewhat  coldly ;  "  I  like  it." 

"  But  not  too  much,  evidently.  Is  it  the  chateau  you 
object  to  ?" 

"  No,  sir  ;  the  chateau  is  very  fine." 

"  You  speak  quite  coolly  ;  what  is  thei*e  amiss  in  that  poor 
chateau  V 

"  Nothing,  sir." 

"  And  what  have  you  to  say  to  the  garden,  or  to  the 
grounds  ?" 

"  Nothing,  sir." 

"  Nothing  !  Oh  !  my  child,  do  not  say  that.  Like  Sain- 
ville,— I  want  you  to  like  it." 

He  spoke  with  so  much  warmth,  that  he  stopped  short 
12 


266  .NATHALIE. 

He  took  her  hand,  and  looked  down  at  hei*  eagerly.  Sli« 
turned  very  pale,  and  trembled  visibly.     He  smiled. 

"Do  not  look  so  frightened,"  said  he,  gently ;  "but  come 
in  here :  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

A  spell  seemed  on  Nathalie :  she  yielded  like  a  child,  as 
he  made  her  enter  the  recess  of  the  sleeping  nymph,  which 
they  were  just  then  passing  by.  On  seeing  where  they  were, 
he  stopped  short,  released  her,  and  cast  a  gloomy  look  around 
him. 

"  Oh  !  Petite,  Petite  !"  he  bitterly  said,  "  what  brought  us 
here?" 

"  Is  not  this  a  pretty  place  ?"  asked  Nathalie  endeavoring 
to  look  composed. 

At  first  he  did  not  reply. 

"  You  like  it !"  he  said  at  length  ;  "  do  not ;  the  shadow  of 
death  is  on  it — a  shadow  nothing  can  remove.  Look  at  that 
nymph  !  Hers  is  no  earthly  sleep — it  is  the  sleep  of  the 
funereal  genius  I  once  saw  on  an  ancient  tombstone  in  Italy, 
and  whose  brow,  though  wreathed  with  flowers,  looked  oppressed 
with  something  more  heavy  than  mere  slumber.  You  like  the 
sun.  When  does  it  penetrate  through  those  yews  and  cy- 
presses— fit  trees  for  what  is  little  better  than  a  tomb  ?" 

He  spoke  with  impatient  bitterness.  There  was  a  long 
pause,  broken  by  no  sound  save  the  low  splash  of  the  fountain. 
Nathalie  looked  at  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  at  the  nymph  in  her 
ivied  niche ;  she  listened  to  the  low  murmurs  of  the  falling 
waters,  and  seemed  to  be  eagerly  seeking,  from  all  she  saw  and 
heard,  the  key  of  some  half-divined  mystery. 

"  Yes,  I  like  this  place,"  she  observed,  at  length. 

"  It  does  not  sadden  or  oppress  you?" 

"No;  why  should  it?" 

"True;  why  should  it?  And  yet  the  eternal  splash  of 
that  fountain  is  strangely  monotonous,  and  the  breath  it  sends 
upon  the  air  is  very  chill.  See,  your  hair  is  covered  with 
spray." 

"  I  find  it  cooling  to  the  brow,  and  pleasant  to  the  ear." 

"  But  it  will  end  by  depressing  you  at  length." 

"  I  am  not  easily  depressed." 

"  No,  poor  child  !  I  dare  say  you  have  made  the  best  of 
the  little  happiness  that  came  in  your  way." 

He  was  looking  at  her  kindly,  yet  sadly. 

^'  It  is  so  difficult  to  be  miser,able  for  a  long  time,"  she  said. 

"  Yet  you  had  your  troubles  ?" 


NATHALIE.  26? 

"  Hopo  upheld  me  with  a  nameless  trust  in  some  unknown 
good  still  to  come." 

"  It  was  not  hope  :  it  was  the  freshness  of  your  years  ;  the 
inexperience  of  youth,  which  knows  not  life  for  what  it  is :  a 
weary  burden — a  dark  captivity." 

'•  I  do  not  believe  that,  at  all !"  cried  Nathalie  ;  "  it  is  too 
hard  to  believe,"  she  added,  coloring  at  the  vivacity  with 
which  she  had  spoken. 

"  Ay,  hard,  indeed — but  too  true." 

"  But  surely,  sir,"  said  Nathalie  very  earnestly,  "  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  happiness  ?" 

He  did  not  reply. 

"  However  brief  it  may  be,"  she  continue'd,  hesitatingly. 

"  And  what  happiness  can  be  called  genuine,  that  does  not 
endure  ?  From  the  moment  we  know  it  must  end  with  life,  is 
not  the  longest  happiness  miserably  brief?  Oh  !  that  thought 
that  all  must  die  aud  every  thing  perish  !  Like  the  skeleton 
guest  of  Egypt's  ancient  banquets,  it  haunts  every  mortal 
festivity." 

He  spoke  sorrowfully.     Nathalie  eyed  him  wistfully. 

"  AVhy  should  one  look  at  that  skeleton,  or  think  of  death  ?" 
she  asked  in  a  low  soft  tone.  "  It  is  of  itself  so  hard  to  believe 
in,  so  easy  to  forget.  Oh  !  when  the  sun  shines  so  brightly, 
when  the  air  is  so  pure,  the  sky  so  blue,  the  whole  earth  so 
fair,  may  not  one  sometimes  imagine,  looking  at  that  beautiful 
universe,  of  which,  however  insignificant,  we  yet  form  a  part, — ■ 
why  should  it  not  endure  thus  for  ever?" 

She  looked  at  him  ;  he  drew  her  arm  within  his. 

"  My  poor  little  thing,"  said  he,  "  death  will  overtake  you 
as  it  overtakes  us  all  ;  with  years  that  pass  like  days,  and 
treacherous  stealthy  steps  that  fall  on  the  ear  unheeded  and 
unheard.  Fresh  and  fair  as  you  are  now,  you  too  must  share 
the  fate  of  earth's  most  glorious  and  most  lovely  things ;  you 
too  must  pass  away,  and  fade,  and  die." 

The  low  and  mournful  cadence  of  his  voice  thrilled  through 
the  heart  of  Nathalie.  She  looked  up  into  his  face  with  a 
fixed  glance  and  parted  lips,  in  a  sort  of  a  serious  and  rapt 
attention.  Far  from  saddening  her,  his  words  had  only  brought 
a  deeper  hue  to  her  cheeks  and  a  softer  light  to  her  eyes  ;  there 
seemed  to  be  for  her  joy,  and  no  gloom  in  the  mournful  images 
he  had  called  up.  She  smiled  to  herself,  like  one  who  beholds 
some  fair  inward  vision. 

"  No  matter,"   said  she,  pressing  her  hands   to   her  bosom, 


2G8 


NATllALJE. 


whilst  the  smile  still  lingered  on  her  lips  ;  "  no  matter  ;  thorn 
is  happiness  still !" 

_  "  I  hope  so,"  he  replied  in  his  usual  tone.  '•  But  you  are 
shivering;  it  must  be  this  chill  place.'' 

He  led  her  away;  they  ascended  the  flight  of  steps  in 
silence ;  he  paused  before  a  sunny  bench  on  the  first  terrace. 

"  Let  us  sit  here,"  he  said,  "  and  continue  our  argument. 
Why  do  you  not  like  Sainville  ?" 

'•I  never  said  I  did  not  like  it,  sir,"  replied  Nathalie, 
startled  at  this  abrupt  remark. 

"  But  you  spoke  very  coldly.  Look  at  it  !  Does  not  the 
old  chateau  look  warm  and  bright  in  the  sunshine,  with  the 
blue  sky  beyond  1  If  you  were  to  live  here  long,  would  you 
always  be  regretting  Provence?  Believe  me,  torget  Aries ; 
and  like  Sainville." 

"  I  like  Sainville,  sir."  She  spoke  so  low  that  the  words 
were  well  nigh  inaudible.  They  both  sat  on  the  bench ;  he 
stooped  to  hear  her  better,  when  a  discreet  cough  in  the  neigh- 
boring alley  announced  the  approach  of  Amanda. 

A  mutual  impulse  made  them  rise.  Nathalie  became 
crimson.  _  Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  pale  and  angry.  The 
lady's  maid  came  up  with  a  thick  shawl  on  her  arm.  "  Madame, 
fearing  lest  mademoiselle  should  take  cold  on  this  chill  morn- 
ing, had  told  her  to  bring  her  this." 

"Rosalie  is  thoughtful,"  quietly  observed  Monsieur  de 
Sainville ;  "  and  now  that  you  have  that  shawl,  will  you  not 
take  another  turn  around  the  garden  ?" 

_  He  took  her  arm  as  he  spoke  ;  but  Nathalie  disengaged  it 
quickly.  She  colored,  hesitated,  stammered,  and  at  length  re- 
plied that  she  felt  tired  and  would  rather  go  in.  He  did  not 
seem  quite  pleased,  but  raised  no  objection.  He  went  in 
through  the  library.  She  entered  the  chateau  by  the  front 
entrance,  and  immediately  proceeded  to  the  drawing-room. 

"  Have  you  had  an  agreeable  walk  V  asked  Madame  Mar- 
ceau.  She  had  half-raised  herself  on  one  elbow  to  look  at  Nathalie. 
The  shawl  had  fallen  back,  and  no  longer  concealed  her  figure, 
once  so  full  and  stately,  now  shrunk  and  wasted  by  disease.' 
The  curtains  of  the  drawing-room  shut  out  the  clear  light  as 
usual,  but  their  crimson  hue  fell  in  vain  on  her  pale  features, 
render^ed  more  pale  by  the  feverish  glitter  of  her  sunken  eyes 

"  Yes,  madame,  a  very  agreeable  walk,"  replied  Nathalie. 

'•  But  solitary.     What  a  pity  !" 

'•I  met  Monsieur  de  Sainville,"  said  Nathalie  in  a  low 
tone. 


c 


NATHALIK.  26S 

"  Indeed  !  I  thought  him  at  Marmont.  Where  did  you 
meet  him  1" 

"  In  the  green-house." 

"  His  favorite  resort :  yours,  too,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  By  no  means,"  drily  replied  the  young  girl. 

"  Well,  Petite,  do  not  put  on  that  serious  face.  Just  \a^ 
by  your  work,  and  let  me  look  at  you.  Ay,  so.  I  have  a 
question  to  ask;  what  did  Armand  say  to  you?" 

She  again  raised  herself  on  one  elbow.  Nathalie  colored 
deeply,  and  looked  disturbed ;  but  she  did  not  reply. 

'•  I  thought  so  !"  indignantly  exclaimed  the  lady,  sinking 
back  on  the  couch.  "  Well,"  she  sharply  added,  "  you  do  not 
answer  !" 

"  I  might  refuse  to  answer,"  said  Nathalie,  rather  haughti- 
ly ;  "  but  it  is  not  worth  while.  Monsieur  de  Sainvillc  spoke 
to  me  only  on  the  most  general  subjects." 

"And  on  none  in  particular?" 

"  Oh  !  yes,"  negligently  replied  Nathalie  ;  "  on  the  north, 
the  south,  and  so  on." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  so  on  ?"  asked  Madame  Marceau, 
with  a  short  laugh. 

Nathalie  looked  up.  so  flushed  and  irritated,  that  the  lady 
softened  down  immediately. 

"  Petite,"  she  said,  "  you  are  vexed.  I  will  make  no  apolo- 
gies ;  but  put  your  hand  here," — she  took  her  hand  and  laid  it 
on  her  heart,  as  she  spoke, — •'  and  here,"  she  added,  making 
her  feel  her  hot  and  throbbing  wrist ;  "  then  ask  yourself  if  the 
fever,  which  wastes  life  at  that  rate,  leaves  the  mind  calm,  and 
the  temper  smooth?" 

"  You  have  a  strong  fever ;  let  me  send  for  the  doctor,"  ex- 
claimed Nathalie,  appeased  at  once. 

"  I  am  not  ill ;  mine  is  a  fever  of  mind  no  doctor's  art  can 
appease.  I  was  very  absurd  awhile  ago ;  but  when  I  learned 
you  had  met  Armand,  I  concluded  he  had  been  repeating  to 
you  what  passed  between  him  and  me,  just  before  he  went  to 
the  garden." 

"  I  am  not  in  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  confidence,"  gravely 
replied  Nathalie. 

"  But  if  what  passed  between  us  was  about  you  1" 

"  About  me  !"  exclaimed  Nathalie. 

"  Come,  I  see  he  has  been  discreet.  So  much  the  better. 
Men  mar  where  they  meddle.  Do  not  look  so  disturbed ;  I 
cannot  explain  myself  for  a  few  days  yet.     This  much  I  can 


270  NATHALIE. 

tell  you:  Armand  makes  me  miserable.  We  ucvcr  quarrel : 
but  we  are  always  jarring.  But  why  should  I  complain  ?  Ha 
is  to  me  what  he  has  been  to  every  one — to  himself  first  of  all 
— inexorable.  I  am  ambitious ;  it  is  in  our  race.  Yes,"  she 
added,  with  her  old  pride  rising,  "ambition  and  will  are  in  the 
blood  of  the  Sainvilles.  Have  I  not  that  for  which  I  may  well 
be  aspiring  ?  You  have  seen  my  son  ;  he  is  young,  handsome, 
and  full  of  talent.  Think  you  he  would  not  make  a  fit  repre- 
sentative of  the  old  family  honors?  Come,  be  frank,"  she 
added,  with  a  peneti-ating  glance ;  "  do  you  not  think  ho 
would  V 

Nathalie  looked  embarrassed,  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  Child,"  returned  Madame  Marceau,  smiling,  "why  do  you 
blush  ?  What  mother  can  resent  that  which  she  herself  feels 
sodeeplj^?  We  will  have  no  explanations,"  she  added,  per- 
ceiving that  Nathalie  looked  disturbed  :  "  I  proceed.  Do  you 
not  think  my  son  would  bear  the  old  name  with  all  due  honor? 
You  do  ;  but  his  uncle,  but  my  brother,"  she  added,  with  much 
bitterness,  "  does  not." 

Nathalie  had  too  long  suspected  this,  to  look  surprised. 

"  You  do  not  seem  astonished,"  suspiciously  said  the  lady ; 
"  then  he  has  told  you  after  all !     Come,  confess  it." 

"  Madame,"  replied  Nathalie,  in  an  accent  that  carried  con- 
viction with  it,  "  he  has  never  even  hinted  this  to  me," 

"  Forgive  me,  Petite  ;  I  am  strangely  sensitive  on  this  point. 
But  to  return.  Do  you  think  my  ambition,  hope,  dream, — call 
it  what  you  will, — so  extravagant?  Could  not  that  which  has 
been  done  for  the  most  noble  families  of  France,  be  done  for 
ours  ?  We  should  have  no  Rohans,  no  Richelieus,  if  the  salio 
system  had  been  carried  out.  Did  not  the  niece  of  the  great 
Cardinal  marry  her  music-master  ?  and  the  last  daughter  of 
the  Rohans  fall  in  love  with  Chabot,  the  cadet  of  Gascony,  and 
by  marrying  him,  perpetuate  a  name  otherwise  doomed  to  ex- 
tinction ?  But  reason,  example,  and  argument  have  proved 
unavailing;  he  has  refused — absolutely  refused.  And  on  what 
plea  ? — why,  on  the  plea  that  the  name  he  has,  by  so  much  sa- 
crifice and  labor,  saved  from  disgrace,  shall  not  be  periled 
Bgain  !" 

She  ceased.  A  crimson  spot  burned  on  her  pale  cheek  ;  she 
looked  feverish  and  excited.  Nathalie,  who  had  heard  her  with 
deep  attention,  now  said,  quietly  : 

"  But  how  can  Monsieur  de  Sainville  pi-event  his  name  from 
hieing  periled  again?     If  he  should  marry,  for  instance?' 


NATUALTE.  27  J 

Madame  Marceau  turned  slowly  round  on  her  couclij  looked 
at  the  young  girl's  attentive  face,  smiled,  turned  back  again, 
and  muttered  to  herself,  "  Marry  !  Armand  marry  !  Petite,' 
she  resumed,  in  her  usual  tone,  '•  you  surprise  me  !  I  thought 
every  one  knew  my  brother  would  not  marry.  You  may  ima- 
gine that  if  I  did  not  know  this,  as  I  know  it,  I  should  ncner 
have  hinted  to  him  the  propriety  of  my  son  assuming  a  name 
which  would  have  been  the  exclusive  right  of  his  own  children. 
And  so,"  she  added,  turning  round  again,  and  giving  the  young 
girl  a  fixed  and  piercing  gaze,  "  so  you  really  did  not  know,  or 
even  suspect,  that  Armand  would  never  marry  ?" 

Nathalie  did  not  answer. 

"  How  strange  !"  continued  the  lady,  laughing,  and  seeming 
much  amused ;  '•  excuse  me,  Petite  ;  but  the  idea  of  Armand 
marrying,  is  to  me  so  peculiar.  Very."  She  laughed  again. 
'•'And  so,"  she  resumed,  when  this  mirthful  fit  was  over,  "  sn 
you  never  noticed  his  constrained  politeness  to  us  poor  women  ! 
So  you  never  noticed  how  he  sneers  at  our  little  follies ;  how 
impatient  he  is  of  our  weakness  :  how  little  he  cares  to  disguise 
his  real  opinion  of  us — namely,  that  w^e  are  weak,  frivolous, 
inconstant,  incapable  of  real  or  high  feeling — toys  to  be  trifled 
with  in  a  light  or  idle  hour:  no  more?  And  so  you  never 
noticed  how  he  mocks  at  love  and  marriage,  and  so  forth ;  and 
yet  you  have  been  here  a  whole  winter,  Petite  V 

Nathalie  remained  silent. 

"  You  see,"  said  Madame  Marceau,  "  it  was  my  knowledge 
of  this  solemn  vow — and  when  was  Armand  ever  known  to 
break  his  word — that  made  me  hope.  But  when  I  mentioned 
this  to  him  this  morning,  he  destroyed  that  hope  at  once,  by 
merely  saying,  "  No,  I  must  be  the  last  of  the  name."  But  I 
must  and  will  be  just :  Armand  spoke  very  kindly  of  Charles, 
more  kindly  thaji  I  could  have  expected.  '  Of  course,'  he  said, 
'  he  shall  be  my  heir  ;  let  this  comfort  you,  Rosalie.  I  hope 
he  has  too  much  good  sense  to  care  about  the  name  of  De  Sain- 
ville  ;  at  all  events,  I  know  a  way  to  render  the  disappointment 
less  bitter.  I  have  been  a  cold,  stern  uncle  till  now,  but  I 
may  befriend  him  in  a  manner  he  little  expects.'  But  how 
pale  and  languid  you  look.  Petite !  I  fear  you  are  not  well ; 
you  are  too  much  shut  up — you  want  long  walks,  like  this 
morning.  I  hope  you  will  continue  to  like  Sainville :  we  want 
you  to  like  it.  Let  me  tell  you  that  you  are  a  great  favorite. 
Ah !  if  you  knew  the  plans  we  have  been  making  to  prolong 
your  sojourn  here?" 


275 


NATHALIE. 


Nathalie  rose  abruptly  ;  she  turned  pale  anil  flushed  by 
turns ;  she  fastened  a  searching  and  burning  look  on  the  sick 
lady. 

"  Madame,"  she  exclaimed,  "  do  you  mean  to  say  that  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville  meant " 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  tell  you  that  ?"  gayly  interrupted 
the  lady,  with  a  playful  wave  of  the  hand ;  "  no,  Petite,  woman 
as  I  am,  I  can  keep  a  secret." 

Nathalie  sat  down,  but  she  soon  rose  again ;  she  looked 
disturbed  and  anxious.  Madame  Marceau  laughed,  and  asked 
if  she  did  not  think  herself  the  victim  of  some  deeply-laid 
scheme  1  In  vain  the  young  girl  sought  to  ascertain  any  thing 
positive  ;  she  only  received  hints  as  vague  and  delusive  as  the 
gleams  of  light  that  dance  on  the  changing  wave.  She  felt 
dazzled,  but  never  enlightened. 

This  lasted  the  whole  day,  for  Madame  Marceau  would  not 
allow  her  to  leave  her.  Towards  evening  she  fell  into  her 
usual  slumber.  Nathalie  sat  near  her,  alone.  The  lamp  was 
not  lit ;  but  the  curtains  had  been  drawn  back  from  the  cen- 
tral window,  whose  wide  arch  framed  a  quiet  picture  of  the 
summits  of  dark  trees,  that  seen  thus,  looked  like  the  outskirts 
of  some  forest  solitude.  Above,  in  the  blue  silent  sky,  hung 
the  moon,  the  motive  lamp  of  nature's  wide  temple  suspended 
there  throughout  eternity.  The  room  was  still;  a  soft  pale 
light  fell  on  the  floor  :  the  evening  was  mild — the  fire  burned 
low,  with  a  faint  smouldering  light.  Nathalie  felt  oppressed 
and  weary  ;  she  turned  towards  the  quiet  scene  which  the 
window  revealed — it  looked  a  calm,  peaceful  region  there, 
delusive  she  knew,  for  it  was  only  the  dusty  road  that  spread 
beyond,  and  yet  even  that  delusion  soothed  her.  The  words 
of  David,  "  Oh  !  that  I  had  the  wings  of  a  dove,  that  I  might 
flee  away,  and  be  at  rest,"  came  back  to  her  heart.  For  while 
a  dream  bore  her  away  on  its  swift  pinions ;  the  freshness  of 
dark  places  seemed  to  fall  on  her  wearied  spirit ;  the  cool  drink 
of  some  icy  fountain  wave,  to  soothe  her  inward  fever.  She 
rose  softly,  and  glanced  towards  Madame  Marceau.  The  invalid 
did  not  move;  her  breathing  remained  regular  and  low:  she 
complained  of  restless  nights,  but  her  evening  sleep  was  always 
heavy  and  deep.  Nathalie  had  all  day  been  longing  to  go 
up  to  Aunt  Radegonde  ;  she  now  thought  she  could  escape 
unheard,  and  return  before  she  had  been  missed.  She  glided 
softly  towards  the  door,  opened  it,  closed  it  noiselessly,  and 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  on  the 
landing.     She  wanted  to  pass  him  ;  he  detained  her. 


NATHALIE.  273 

"Why  did  you  not  come  down  to  dinner?''  he  asked. 

"  Madame  Marceau  made  me  dine  with  her." 

'What  is  the  matter?  Your  voice  does  not  sound  as 
usual ;  has  there  been  any  thing  to  trouble  or  annoy  you  ?" 

His  tone  was  brief,  his  look  keen  and  penetrating ;  she 
averted  her  face  without  replying. 

'•  Let  me  know  what  it  is,  I  beseech  you." 

His  voice  was  unusually  kind  and  soothing.  Tears  trem- 
bled on  the  lashes  of  her  downcast  eyes. 

"  Let  me  know  it,  I  beseech  you,"  he  said  again,  owering 
his  voice  so  that  no  passing  servant  might  overhear  his  tones. 

Before  Nathalie  could  reply,  the  drawing-room  door  opened, 
and  Madame  Marceau  appeared,  with  her  pale  face  and  glitter- 
ing eyes  on  the  threshold.  The  subdued  light  of  the  lamp, 
held  by  the  marble  slave,  shone  on  their  three  faces. 

"  Petite,"  said  she,  in  a  brief  abrupt  tone,  taking  Nathalie's 
arm  as  she  spoke,  "why  did  you  leave  me?  you  know  I  have  a 
horror  of  remaining  alone  ever  since  I  am  ill." 

"And  you  are  ill,  very  ill  to  night,"  observed  her  brother, 
with  something  between  anger  and  pity  on  his  countenance,  as 
he  watched  her  agitated  face  and  trembling  frame, — "  come  in, 
Rosalie." 

He  made  her  release  her  hold  of  Nathalie,  took  her  arm 
and  led  her  into  the  drawing-room,  closing  the  door  behind 
him.     Nathalie  went  up  to  the  boudoir  of  the  Canoness. 

"  Oh.  Petite  !  how  glad  I  am  you  are  come,"  eagerly  said 
Aunt  Radegonde  ;  "  I  have  been  so  dull,  but  now  I  shall  be  all 
right  again  ;  for  you  know  what  I  said  this  morning :  you  are 
better  than  sunshine,  flowers,  or  bird  in  the  house." 

The  young  girl  smiled  faintly,  but  silently  sat  down  on  a 
low  stool  at  the  feet  of  her  old  friend.  Five  minutes  elapsed  ; 
she  did  not  open  her  lips.  The  Canoness  stooped,  made  her 
raise  hei  face  so  that  it  met  her  own  attentive  gaze,  and 
exclaimed, — 

"  How  pale  you  are  !" 

"  I  have  a  bad  head-ache." 

There  was  another  silence. 

"  Marraine,"  suddenly  observed  Nathalie,  "  is  it  true  that 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  has  taken  a  vow  never  to  marry?" 

Her  look  was  riveted  on  the  features  of  Aunt  Kadegonde. 
She  dropped  her  knitting  and  turned  very  pale;  her  feature* 
worked,  her  lips  trembled,  and  her  eyes  dimmed  with  tears. 

21* 


274  NATHALIE. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  in  a  broken  tone,  '•  he  has  taken  a  voyi 
never  to  marry." 

N.athalie  rose  much  disturbed ;  her  features  were  scarcely 
less  agitated  than  those  of  Aunt  Radegonde.  She  walked  up 
and  dovfn  the  room  with  hasty  and  uneven  steps :  at  length 
she  panned  near  the  chair  of  the  Canoness,  and  gently  laying 
her  hand  on  the  arm  of  her  old  friend,  she  said, in  a  remorseful 
tone, — 

'•  I  have  been  cruel, — forgive  me." 

*'  My  dear  child,  you  could  not  know  all  that  such  a  question 
called  up." 

"  Yes,  yen,  I  know  it,"  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  in  a 
broken  tone  ;  '•  I  know  it  but  too  well." 

The  Canoraess  wheeled  back  her  chair  to  see  her  better. 

"  Petite,"  she  said,  '•  you  mistake  ;  you  know  nothing." 

"  Nothing  !'■  bitterly  replied  Nathalie,  and  she  clasped  her 
hands,  and  again  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Petite,  what  do  you  know?" 

Nathalie  shool;  her  head  without  replying.  A  hectic  flush 
overspread  the  fegUires  of  Aunt  Radegonde. 

"  You  must  teW  me.  you  must,"  she  exclaimed  with  unusual 
warmth. 

"And  where  .s'lall  I  find  the  words  that  will  not  grieve 
you?"  asked  NathiMe  with  deep  sadness.  "How  shall  I  say 
that  I  know  the  r.ad  story  of  one  whose  image  is  in  this  room, 
who  was  lovely,  and  destined  to  happiness,  and  who  suffered  so 
much  through  another,  who  is  also  dear  to  you." 

'"  He  is  not,  ho  is  not !"  passionately  cried  the  Canoness  ; 
"  I  have  never  forgiven  him  in  my  heart ;  I  never  will  forgive 
him.  I  hate  myself  sometimes  for  residing  under  his  roof  and 
eating  his  bread  ;  yes,  I  hate  myself,  I  do." 

Nathalie  eyed  Aer  with  a  troubled  look.  There  is  some- 
thing strange  and  impressive  in  the  impotent  wrath  of  age, — 
that  last  lingeiing  spark  of  a  dying  fire.  On  seeing  the 
gentle  Canoness  so  strangely  moved,  the  young  girl  began  to 
understand  the  strength  and  depth  of  the  resentful  feeling  which 
had  slumbered  all  along. 

"  Do  you  know,"  continued  the  Canoness,  in  the  same  ex- 
cited tone,  "  that  she  was  dear  to  me  as  mine  own  child  ;  that 
she  was  a  poor  motherless  orphan ;  the  daughter  of  a  loved 
and  only  sister  ;  that  I  brought  her  up  here  in  this  house,  and 
that  for  sixteen  years  she  never  left  me.  That  she  was  beau- 
tiful as  the  day,  and  the  gentlest  creature  that  ever  lived  ;  tliat 


NATHALtE.  275 

to  see  her  was  to  love  her,  and  that  but  for  one  hard 
heart  she  might  be  with  ns  still, — a  joy  to  all,  a  blessing 
to  me.  You  weep  ;  you  feel  for  her.  God  bless  your  kind 
heart ; — say,  was  not  hers  a  hard  fate  ?  He  came  back  in 
time  ;  her  father  relented,  but  he  would  not ;  his  pride — that 
pride  which  will  bring  down  a  judgment  on  him  yet — would 
not  let  him  relent  or  forgive. ,  He  allowed  her  to  be  married 
to  another  almost  before  his  eyes.  She  died  of  a  broken 
heart ;  he  lived  on  calm,  prosperous,  and  happy." 

"  The  color  had  repeatedly  changed  on  Nathalie's  cheek  aa 
she  listened  to  Aunt  Radegonde.  Her  hands  were  nervously 
clasped  together ;  her  look  was  feverish  ;  in  a  voice  she  vainly 
strove  to  render  calm,  she  said,  "  How  do  you  know  he  is 
happy?  how  do  you  know  he  does  not  suffer  ?" 

The  Canoness  gave  her  a  dreary  look. 

"  To  suffer,  he  should  have  a  heart,  and  it  is  not  a  heart  he 
has.  but  a  stone.  I  always  warned  my  poor  child  not  to  like 
him ;  but  youth  is  rash,  and  she  would  not  be  warned.  She 
might  have  found  many  another  suitor,  for  she  was  very  lovely. 
That  portrait  is  her  very  image.  Look  at  her !  My  Aunt 
Adelaide  was  beautiful,  no  doubt,  but  never  half  so  beautiful 
as  my  own  Lucille.  She  never  had  that  fine  silken  hair  my 
hand  has  smoothed  and  caressed  so  often  ;  she  never  had  those 
soft  blue  eyes  that  have  looked  up  into  mine  with  a  smile, — 
many,  oh  !  many  a  time." 

She  ceased  ;  her  tears  were  falling  fast.  Nathalie  looked 
at  the  two  portraits :  at  the  dark  and  at  the  fair  beauty ;  at 
the  face  that  had  the  coloring,  rich,  warm,  and  yet  soft,  of  some 
old  Venetian  master  ;  at  the  other  calm  countenance,  with  the 
lovely,  but  pale  outlines  of  a  Raffaelle  head.  She  compared 
them  :  Adelaide  de  Sainville  looked  very  beautiful,  but  when 
she  turned  from  her  to  the  serene  face,  it  seemed  as  if  that  be- 
witching, but  still  earthly  beauty  faded  away  as  mortal  and 
perishable,  before  the  pure  and  ideal  loveliness  of  Aunt  Rade- 
goude's  lost  niece. 

"  Oh,  Marraine  P'  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low  tone,  "  if  ho  does 
not  suffer,  remember,  and  regret,  why  that  vow  ?" 

"  Pride,  child, — pride.  Once  deceived  by  woman,  he  will 
not  be  deceived  a  second  time." 

"  Hush,"  quickly  said  Nathalie. 

Her  ear  had  detected  the  well-known  step  ;  the  door  opened, 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  entered.  The  Canoness  looked  discon- 
certed ;  Nathalie  agitated.     He  eyed  them  keenly  from  the 


276  NATHALIE. 

threshold  of  the  room  ;  closed  the  door  deliberately ;  came 
forward  and  excused  himself  in  his  customary  calm  tone,  for 
not  having  warned  his  aunt  of  his  visit. 

"  It  is  no  matter,  Armand — no  matter,"  she  replied  ;  bu< 
her  voice  quivered,  and  her  hands  trembled  as  she  resumed  hei 
knitting. 

Her  nephew  glanced  from  her  to  Nathalie.  The  young 
girl  had  risen  ;  she  avoided  his  look,  took  up  a  book  lying  on 
the  table,  turned  over  a  few  pages,  closed  it,  and  left  the  rooir 
without  speaking. 

"  Aunt,"  abruptly  asked  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  "what  is  the 
matter  with  Mademoiselle  Montolicu  V 

"  She  has  a  bad  head-ache." 

"  Nothing  else  ?" 

His  look  was  piercing;    but  the  Cauoness  calml}  replied: 

"  No,  Armand,  nothing  else  that  I  know  of." 

"  There  is  something  going  on  to-day  in  this  house,  which 
I  cannot  understand,"  he  said  impatiently.  ''  "What  is  it  ? 
You  look  surprised.  Well,  I  dare  say  you  know  nothing 
about  it.  Listen  to  this,  however :  Petite  is  unwell ;  she 
wants  a  walk,  make  her — you  can  if  you  wish — take  one  to- 
morrow." 

"  Certainly,  Armand,"  answered  the  Canoness,  with  much 
alacrity,  for  she  felt  this  concern  in  one  whom  she  loved, 
soothing  and  complimentary.  As  a  sort  of  a^nende  Jionorahh 
for  the  harsh  feelings  she  had  been  cherishing  against  him,  she 
added,  "  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Armand,  for  the 
interest  you  take  in  Petite." 

A  peculiar  smile  played  around  the  pale  firm  lips  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville  as  he  received  these  thanks,  and  looked  down 
at  the  little  but  erect  figure  of  his  aunt. 

"  Petite  !"  he  echoed,  "  what  tempted  you  to  call  her  so  ; 
she  is  not  short?" 

"  No,  certainly ;  but  there  is  something  slight  and  airy 
about  her.  She  is  not  one  of  those  women,  for  instance,  who 
fill  a  room  ;  a  sort  of  woman  I  never  could  endure,"  emphati- 
cally added  the  Canoness. 

"  Petite,"  as  you  call  her,  "  is  certainly  not  one  of  those 
ample  ladies  ;  but  she  can  fill  a  room  with  noise.  Was  it  not 
her  I  heard  singing  here  this  morning,  or  Amanda,  perhaps  V 

"  Amanda  !"  indignantly  exclaimed  his  aunt ;  "  do  you 
imagine,  Armand,  I  would  allow  my  niece's /e?7i??ie  de  chambn 
to  sing  in  my  room,  in  my  presence  ?" 


KATHALIE.  277 

"  I  thought  you  liked  that  girl,"  replied  her  nephew,  eye 
iag  her  fixedly  .;  "  she  is  a  good  deal  with  you." 

'•  But  I  keep  hei'  at  a  distance,- — at  a  great  distance,"  em 
phatieally  said  his  aunt. 

"  Then  it  was  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  who  sang  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  was  as  merry  as  a  bird  this  morning ;  but  this 
evening  she  scarcely  opened  her  lips." 

'•  She  is  not  well ;  I  saw  it  at  once,"  returned  Monsieur  de 
Sainrille,  with  a  brief  expression  of  anxiety.  "  I  hope  you  will 
tell  her  to  take  a  walk  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Be  quite  easy,  Armand,"  said  the  Canoness,  with  a  shrewd 
nod  ;  "  I  shall  tell  her  to  walk  up  and  down  by  the  river  side  ; 
there  is  a  fine  breeze  there." 

"A  great  deal  too  fine,"  quickly  replied  her  nephew ;  "  be- 
sides there  are  workmen  engaged  there  now ;  it  would  annoy 
her." 

"  Then  I  shall  make  her  promise  to  keep  to  the  first  terrace, 
where  the  sun  is  so  warm.'- 

"  Let  her  choose  her  own  walk,  aunt."  he  said,  somewhat 
impatiently,  "  she  will  enjoy  it  more." 

There  was  a  pause ;  Monsieur  de  Sainville  bade  his  aunt 
good  night,  walked  to  the  door,  and  suddenly  came  back ;  he 
drew  La  Rochefoucauld  from  his  pocket,  and  put  it  on  the  ta- 
ble. 

"  I  found  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  reading  this  book  this 
morning,"  he  said  briefly ;  "  I  took  it  from  her ;  it  seemed  a 
pity  that  the  freshness  of  so  young  a  mind  should  be  tarnished 
Oy  such  bitter  lore.  Why  did  you  not  lend  hex  some  tale,  os 
novel,  aunt?" 

"  A  tale,  a  novel !  Armand  ;  and  to  a  young  girl  ?" 

"  Why  not?"  he  composedly  asked ;  '-I  suppose  that  no  taie 
or  novel  in  your  possession  would  be  unfit  for  her  reading  1 
And  I  believe  it  is  for  youth  those  books  are  most  proper." 

"  That  is  not  my  creed,"  firmly  said  the  Canoness. 

"  Aunt,  novels  are  very  harshly  treated  ;  they  are  simply  a 
want  of  our  imaginative  faculties,  which  must  and  will  be  sat- 
isfied. Youth  must  have  romances,  or,  what  is  far  more  dan- 
gerous, it  will  make  to  itself  romances  of  its  own.  But  that 
is  not  the  question ;  I  return  this  book  to  you  because  it  ia 
from  you  it  was  had  ;  it  was  mine  formfirly,  but  I  do  not  value 
it  now.  A])7-opos"  he  carelessly  added,  "  you  may  induce 
Mademoiselle  Montolieu  to  prolong  her  walk,  by  telling  her 
that  a  fine  azelia  has  arrived  this  afternoonj  and  is  now  in  the 
green-house." 


278  Nathalie. 

•'  An  azelia  !"  cried  the  Canoness ;  well,  then,  I  think  1 
shall  venture  out  with  Petite  to  see  the  azelia." 

"  No,  pray  do  not,"  very  quickly  said  her  nephew ;  "  there 
is  still  a  very  keen  breeze  out." 

And  when  he  again  stood  near  the  door,  he  turned  round  to 
say,  very  seriously, — 

''  Aunt,  promise  me  that  you  will  not  go  out  to-morrow." 

The  Canoness  gave  the  required  promise. 

'•  He  is  kind,  after  all,"  she  thought,  when  her  nephew  was 
gone,  and  willing  to  gratify  him  at  once,  she  rang  the  bell. 
Amanda  made  her  appearance. 

"  I  wish  to  see  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  said  the  Can- 
oness, in  a  distant  tone,  suggested  by  the  recent  conversation. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  inform  madame,  that  Mademoiselle  Monto- 
lieu, being  troubled  with  a  bad  headache,  has  retired  to  her 
room  " 

"  Then  I  must  see  her  when  she  comes  down  to-morrow 
iiorning.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  is  my  companion,  and  I 
must  say  I  think  the  way  in  which  my  neice  usurps  her  socie- 
ty is  quite  preposterous.  I  never  can  see  her.  I  shall  expect 
to  see  her  to-morrow  morning ;  I  have  an  important  communi- 
cation to  make  to  her.  It  is  quite  necessary  Mademoiselle 
Montolieu  should  take  exercise,  and  there  is  something  in  the 
green-house  she  is  expected  to  go  and  look  at.  I  must  have  a 
conversation  with  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  on  that  subject." 

And  with  a  dignified  wave  of  the  hand  Amanda  was  dis- 
Kiissed. 


-•-•-•- 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Artists  have  the  privilege  of  forgetfulness,  and  Made- 
moiselle Amanda  was,  to  use  her  own  expression,  "  oblivious." 

Thus,  though  she  saw  Nathalie  on  the  following  morning, 
and  spoke  for  a  full  half-hour  on  various  subjects  connected 
with  her  art  and  the  dulness  of  the  chateau,  she  wholly  for- 
got to  deliver  the  message  of  the  Canoness ;  through  which 
piece  of  obliviousness  the  blossoms  of  the  azelia  bloomed, 
withered,  and  fell  unseen  by  Nathalie. 

No  sooner  did  the  young  girl  come  down  to  the  drawing- 


NATHALIE.  279 

room,  than  Madame  Marceau  declared  she  looked  pale  and  un 
well.     '•  It  was  the  dulness  and  seclusion  of  her  existence  was 
the  cause  of  this.     She  wanted  change.     Why  not  go  and  spenc' 
the  day,  the  whole  day,  with  her  sister?" 

Nathalie  declined ;  but  the  lady  was  importunate  :  she 
yielded.  In  another  half-hour  she  was  standing  in  the  quiet 
court  at  the  door  of  Madame  Lavigne's  dwelling.  The  place 
looked  even  more  silent  and  lonely  than  usual  in  this  soft 
April  morning, — gray,  humid,  free  from  sunshine,  but  calm  and 
mild,  with  the  last  lingering  chillness  of  winter  melting  away 
before  the  genial  breath  of  spring 

Rose  was  sitting  alone.  She  greeted  her  sister  quietly, 
but  with  a  long  earnest  look  she  had  often  fastened  on  her  of 
late.  Nathalie  shunned  her  glance,  and  took  up  the  other  end 
of  the  sheet  Rose  was  hemming.  But  her  portion  of  the  task 
soon  lay  neglected  on  her  lap  :  she  reclined  back  in  her  chair, 
one  hand  supporting  her  cheek,  her  head  slightly  averted,  her 
look  fixed  on  the  old  tower  opposite ;  she  looked  pale  and 
thoughtful. 

'•^What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  suddenly  asked  Rose. 

"  It  is  the  weather,"  slowly  replied  Nathalie,  bending  once 
more  over  her  work.  "  I  feel  dreamy.  There  is  in  this  cloudy 
sky,  in  this  humid  atmosphere,  in  this  fine  rain  that  scarcely 
moistens  the  earth  on  which  it  softly  falls,  in  the  mildness  of 
the  air,  telling  us  spring  has  returned,  something  which  quite 
unnerves  my  southern  nature.  I  feel  subdued,  passive,  and 
like  one  in  a  dream,  but  without  the  wish  to  waken  ;  every 
thing  looks  vague  and  scarcely  real ;  thoughts  come  and  lead 
me  on  I  know  pot  whither,  nor  how.  If.  I  were  walking  in  the 
garden  now,  I  should  go  on  without  caring  to  stop ;  but  sitting 
as  I  am  here,  looking  at  that  old  tower,  and  watching  those 
cawing  rooks,  I  feel  as  if  I  could  remain  thus  all  day  long." 

"  You  were-  not  thus  when  you  first  went  to  Sainville !" 
ejaculated  Rose. 

"  Perhaps  not.  I  lived  with  children  at  Mademoiselle 
Dantin's ;  but  it  now  seems  as  if  I  had  passed  the  boundary 
of  real  life.  I  remember  that  time  as  something  years  ago, — 
far  away  in  the  past." 

'•  Your  life  is  too  dull,"  returned  Rose,  anxiously. 

"  I  do  not  find  it  so.  I  am  getting  a  nun,  like  you,  Rose; 
and  I  like  the  silence,  I  had  -well-nigh  said,  the  solitude,  of  my 
convent." 

"  You  must  leave  the  chateau,"  urged  Rose  ;  "  the  object 


280  NATHALIE. 

you  had  in  remaining  there  is  accomplished ;  you  must  leave 
it  and  seek  some  more  active  life." 

"  Leave,  and  fight  alone  this  world's  hard  battles,  Rose  !" 
said  Nathalie,  with  a  mournful  smile  ;  "  strange  counsel, — and 
not  counsel  for  me.  I  am  daring,  but  not  courageous.  I  can 
be  bold  when  the  peril  is  far  away ;  but  place  me  on  the  shore 
of  life's  stormy  sea,  show  me  the  frail  barque  that  is  to  carry 
me  off, — and  my  heart  sinks  with  fear  within  me.  The  time 
when  I  longed  for  independence  is  gone.  What  is  it  but  an- 
other name  for  selfishness  ?  I  know  nothing  more  miserable, 
Why  should  people  be  for  ever,  anxious  to  have  their  own  way, 
when  it  would  be  so  much  more  easy  to  yield  to  some  safer 
hand,  close  one's  eyes,  and  thus  go  down  the  stream?" 

Rose  looked  up  as  her  sister  spoke  thus ;  she  seemed  in 
clined  to  reply,  but  checked  the  temptation  ;  they  both  worked 
on  in  a  silence  which  was  not  broken  until  the  entrance  of 
Madame  Lavigne.  The  blind  woman  was  even  more  than  usu- 
ally cross  ;  nothing  could  please  her :  Nathalie  failed  in  restor- 
ing her  to  good  humor,  although  she  several  times  endeavored 
to  do  so  in  the  course  of  the  day.  She  once  rose  to  arrange 
her  pillow,  but  scarcely  had  her  hand  touched  it  when  Madame 
Lavigne  turned  round  on  her,  exclaiming  with  a  sort  of  snarl : 

"  Do  not;  you  know  I  hate  fondling." 

She  looked  any  thing  but  an  object  to  fondle  ;  but  Natha- 
lie was  in  a  pacific  mood,  and  only  gave  her  a  look  of  gentle 
pity. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  standing  there  for?"  snappishly  asked 
Madame  Lavigne,  turning  towards  her  with  a  frown  ;  "  have 
you  got  nothing  to  say?" 

"  Nothing,  I  am  afraid,  that  would  amuse  you." 

"  Oh !  what  a  gentle  creature  we  are  to-day !  how  softly 
we  speak  with  that  little  low  voice.  '  Nothing,  I  am  afraid, 
that  would  amuse  you,'  she  added,  mimicking  her ;  "  what  if 
we  talk  about  the  best  friend  :  will  that  rouse  and  vex  you  ?" 

"  Why  should  it  vex  me,  madame  ?" 

"  Oh  !  you  know." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not." 

"  It  will  not  vex  you,  if  I  say  he  is  harsh  and  bad." 

"  I  shall  conclude  that  you  are  mistaken  :  he  is  kind  wd 
good." 

"  He  is  a  despot." 

"Not  in  the  least;  he  is  just  and  good  to  all." 

"  And  to  you  !"  said  Madame  Lavigne,  sneering. 


NATHALIE.  281 

"  He  is  very  good  to  ino,"  seriously  replied  Nathalie. 

"  Do  not  teL  me  that :  I  know  those  Sainvilles  ;  they  ai-e 
flint  and  steel.  I  knew  him  when  he  was  a  youth,  and  peopia 
called  him  Monsieur  Armand ;  he  then  looked  sour  and  dark 
— I  dare  say  he  looks  so  still." 

"Did  you  see  him,  then?"  asked  Nathalie. 

'•'•  I  sat  at  mass,  near  him  and  his  pretty  cousin,  every  Sun- 
day for  two  years." 

"  What  was  she  like — how  did  she  look  ?" 

A  sour  and  disagreeable  expression  gradually  settled  oa 
the  features  of  Madame  Lavigne.  Her  head  was  sunk  on  her 
ch^st ;  she  shook  it  slowly,  and  laughed  to  herself  a  low  sylla- 
bic "  Ha-ha  !" 

"  "Was  she  very  handsome  ?"  reiterated  Nathalie,  drawing 
nearer  to  the  blind  woman's  chair. 

Rose  laid  down  her  work,  and  eyed  them  both. 

Madame  Lavigne  raised  her  head,  and  turned  it  towards 
the  young  girl,  as  if  she  still  could  see  with  her  dull  sightless 
orbs. 

"  She  was  beautiful !"  she  said,  emphatically,  "  but  not  at 
all  like  you  ;  she  was  like  an  angel,  and  you  are  more  like  a 
wicked  spirit,  or  a  salamander." 

"  Was  she  not  very  pale  ?" 

"  Ay,  as  pale  as  a  fresh-blown  rose ;  but  with  all  that,  she 
was  the  most  delicate  creature  eye  ever  saw — a  sylph,  in  short. 
But  young,  pretty,  and  delicate  as  she  was,  she  died ;  whilst 
old,  ugly,  and  blind,  Madame  Lavigne  has  lived  on." 

"  Is  it  now  very  long  ago  ?"  resumed  Nathalie. 

"  Some  fifteen  years.     Oh  !  she  was  a  lovely  creature  !" 

Strange  power  of  a  matchless  beauty !  death  had  stepped 
in  :  years  had  elapsed,  but  time  had  not  yet  effaced  the  mem- 
ory of  that  ideal  loveliness  which  thus  seemed  to  live  and  to 
endure  beyond  the  grave.  Nathalie  asked  no  further  ques- 
iions  :  indeed,  she  spoke  no  more. 

"  Go,"  impatiently  exclaimed  the  blind  woman,  waving  th« 
young  girl  away ;  "  you  have  become  dull  and  moping  thia 
time  back :  there  is  not  a  bit  of  spirit  left  in  you.  I  suppose 
you  are  turning  lackadaisical  and  sentimental." 

Rose  looked  at  her  sister,  but  Nathalie's  face  was  averted 
from  her,  and  she  could  not  trace  its  expression. 

Towards  twilight  the  young  girl  left.  Rose  accompanied 
her  to  the  door.  They  were  alone  in  the  dark  passage ;  the 
eider  sister  looked  at  the  other  with  a  fixed  and  earnest  glan^* 


ES2  NATHALIE. 

"My  poor  child!"  said  she,  in  a  low  tone, ''you  arc  not 
well,  that  I  can  see.     Come  to  me  oftener." 

Nathalie  did  not  reply ;  she  twined  her  arms  around  the 
neck  of  Rose,  kissed  her,  and  was  gone  ;  but  Rose  felt  thai 
tears,  not  her  own,  had  remained  on  her  cheek. 

In  the  well-lit  hall  of  the  chateau  Nathalie  met  Amanda. 
The  femtnc-de-ckamhre  stepped  forward,  and  said,  with  a  sub" 
dued  smile,  and  downcast  look  : 

'•'•  Shall  I  have  the  pleasure  of  accompanying  mademoiselle 
to  her  room  ?" 

"  And  for  what  reason  ?"  inquired  Nathalie,  much  sur- 
prised. 

'•  I  thought  that  mademoiselle  might  like  me  to  assist  her 
in  her  toilet." 

Nathalie  thought  that  Mademoiselle  Amanda  was  very  im- 
pertinent ;  but  she  merely  replied  that  she  did  not  intend 
changing  her  dress,  and  accordingly  went  up  alone  to  her  room. 
She  lingered  there  long ;  to  go  down  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
meet  Madame  Marceau  and  her  brother  was  disagreeable  to 
her  ;  she  could  not  even  endure  the  idea  of  visiting  Aunt  Rade- 
gonde,  in  her  lonely  boudoir  ;  she  wished  to  be  alone — alone 
with  her  thoughts.  A  heaviness  of  spirit,  a  sense  of  coming 
evil,  was  over  her  ;  she  reasoned,  and  endeavored  to  chase  it 
away,  but  it  was  importunate,  and  would  return  :  there  was  no 
remedy  for  it,  but  to  submit— to  yield  to  the  feeling,  and  let  it 
have  sway.  She  did  so,  and  the  passing  weakness  relieved  her. 
At  nine  she  resolved  on  going  down  ;  she  would  greatly  have 
preferred  remaining  in  her  room,  but  it  would  have  looked  sin- 
gular. She  paused  near  the  drawing-room  door  ;  a  regular  and 
monotonous  step  paced  the  floor — it  was  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville ;  she  thought  he  would  have  retired  by  this  :  but  whether 
he  was  there  or  not,  she  must  go  in.  She  entered,  closed  the 
door  behind  her,  advanced  a  few  steps,  then  remained  rooted 
to  the  spot  on  which  she  stood.  Seated  near  his  mother  she 
had  beheld  the  dark  and  handsome  Charles  Marceau. 

That  strange,  heart-sickening  dread,  which  is  experienced 
in  the  great  crisis  of  existence,  came  over  Nathalie.  She  felt 
like  one  who  has  fong  toiled  up  an  arduous  way,  through  some 
rocky  steep,  who  stands  on  the  crowning  summit  with  at  least 
a  glimpse  of  the  promised  land  in  view ;  but  whom  an  iron 
grasp  suddenly  snatches  away,  and  pitilessly  drags  down  again 
to  the  dark  valleys,  where  the  fair  vision  is  shut  out  for  ever 
by  gloomy  and  rugged  rock.     "  Oh  !"  she  thought,  with  a  pass- 


NATHALIE.  283 

ing  feeling  of  des2)air,  "  the  moment  dreaded  so  long  is  come  at 
last."  But  she  remained  calm  outwardly,  for  she  saw  that  all 
were  looking  at  her,  from  Madame  Marceau,  on  her  couch,  tc 
Monsieur  de  Sainville,  now  standing  motionless,  like  her,  in 
the  centre  of  the  room.  Charles  rose,  and  bowed ;  Nathalie 
inclined  her  head  and  came  foi-ward ;  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
resumed  his  promenade  ;  his  sister  coldly  greeted  the  young 
girl.     No  one  spoke. 

She  sat  down,  and  took  her  work-basket.  She  looked  at 
Madame  Marceau  ;  the  lady  averted  her  cold  and  severe  face  : 
at  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ;  he  walked  up  and  down  the  room, 
and  looked  neither  right  nor  left*  at  Charles  Marceau  ;  he 
alone  seemed  perfectly  composed,  and  he  alone  looked  at  her. 
She  worked  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  but  she  felt  like 
one  in  a  dream,  for  still  she  heard  the  monotonous  pace  on  one 
side,  and  on  the  other  met  the  fixed  and  watchful  look,  when- 
ever she  raised  her  glance.  She  abruptly  laid  down  her  task, 
and  retired  to  her  room. 

She  had  foreseen  it  would  come  to  this.  Why  should  she 
remain  for  ever  in  that  house  ?  And  yet  it  now  seemed  very 
hard  and  bitter  to  go.^  "  And  must  I  go,  indeed  T'  she  asked 
herself,  with  her  brow  leaning  on  her  hand  ;  and  conscience 
and  pride  gave  but  one  reply  :  "  Depart !  You  have  no  right 
to  stay  here,  to  be  the  cause  of  useless  strife  ; — depart  !"  She 
struggled,  and  finally  yielded.  She  would  leave  on  the  follow- 
ing morning,  early,  without  seeing  any  one.  But  would  not 
this  look  as  if  she  had  run  away  ?  She  would  be  missed  ;  ser- 
vants would  be  questioned  ;  and  it  would  all  seem  very  strange. 
She  at  length  resolved  on  writing  to  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ; 
but  when  the  note — a  short  one — lay  sealed  upon  her  desk,  she 
asked  herself  how  he  would  receive  it.  To  leave  it  in  her  room 
was  useless — to  give  it  to  a  servant  was  precisely  what  she 
most  wished  to  avoid.  In  her  perplexity,  she  almost  thought 
of  going  down  to  the  library  and  asking  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
to  grant  her  an  interview ;  but  the  idea  was  quickly  rejected 
for  another  which  it  had  suggested. 

Nathalie  had  not  resided  so  long  in  the  chateau  without 
knowing  the  daily  habits  of  its  master.  He  was  an  early  riser, 
and  went  down  to  the  library  every  morning.  The  young  girl 
intended  being  gone  by  that  time ;  a  letter  placed  there  for 
him,  lying  on  the  table,  in  some  conspicaous  spot,  would  there- 
fore meet  his  view  at  once,  and  long  before  her  departure  could 
have  been  discovered  by  any  one  else.     She  knew  her  host  too 


284  NATHALIE. 

well  not  to  feel  certain  that  he  would  immediately  take  such 
steps  as  would  check  indiscreet  or  disagreeable  conjectures. 
This  was,  therefore,  the  course  she  resolved  on  adopting.  She 
extinguished  her  light,  aiad  sat  down  near  the  window,  waiting 
until  a  light  should  appear  in  the  opposite  turret.  She  waited 
long ;  but  it  came  at  length,  and  with  it  appeared  Monsieur  de 
Sainville's  figure,  seen  through  the  muslin  curtain.  Nathalie 
did  not  wait  for  more.  She  took  a  letter,  opened  the  door, 
paused,  and  listened.  The  house  was  perfectly  still.  She  walked 
softly  along  the  corridor — since  her  illness,  Madame  Marceau 
had  removed  to  a  lower  apartment — and,  when  she  had  reached 
the  head  of  the  staircase,  looked  down  over  the  banister.  A 
faint  circle  of  light  glimmered  at  the  bottom  of  its  dark  depths  ; 
she  knew  this  must  be  the  lamp  in  the  hall,  dying  away ;  it 
was  as  she  thought.  The  last  servant  had  retired  to  rest, — no 
one  would  see  or  disturb  her.  Her  step  was  light ;  her  satin 
slippers  made  no  sound,  and  fell  noiselessly  on  each  step  of 
polished  oak.  She  had  gone  down  as  far  the  first  floor  landing, 
when  she  suddenly  stopped  short.  Madame  «SIarceau's  door, 
which  faced  the  drawing-room,  stood  ajar,  and  a  faint  streak  of 
light  glided  out  on  the  otherwise  dark  landing.  Whilst  Nathe- 
lie  hesitated,  and  wondered  whether  she  ought  to  proceed  or 
to  retrace  her  steps,  she  heard  Madame  Marceau's  voice  ex- 
claiming : 

"  Charles,  do  not  blame  me  !  What  I  saw  made  me  desper- 
ate. Do  not  blame  me  !  I  meant  well ;  and  all  for  your  good. 
Do  not  break  my  heart — do  not  !" 

Her  son  made  some  low  reply,  which  did  not  reach  Nathalie's 
ear. 

"  And  I  tell  you,"  passionately  answered  his  mother,  "  that 
though  I  should  die,  this  shall  not  be  !  She — she — it  shall  not 
be — it  shall  not  be  !" 

Her  voice  rose  louder  with  every  word.  Nathalie  heard 
the  young  man  leave  his  seat,  and  close  the  door.  The  landing 
relapsed  into  sudden  darkness  and  silence.  The  young  girl 
paused  for  a  moment,  then  softly  glided  down.  She  reached 
the  hall,  which  was  still  partly  lit  by  the  faint,  lurid  light  of 
the  dying  lamp,  without  having  awakened  one  echo  in  the  now 
silent  house.  To  add  to  her  good  fortune,  she  found  the  library 
door  ajar;  she  entered,  and  closed  it  softly  after  her. 

Notwithstanding  his  predilection  for  cold  climates,  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville  did  not  seem  averse  to  a  good  fire,  for  the 
remains  of  what  had  evidently  been  a  bright  one,  still  burned 


A'ATIIALIE.  '283 

yn  the  hearth.  But  it  only  shed  a  warm,  soft  light,  that  did 
not  dispel  the  shadowy  gloom  of  the  apartment ;  there  was  no 
clear,  vivid  flame,  to  give  distinctness  to  every  object;  Natha- 
lie could  merely  see  her  way.  She  reached  the  table,  placed 
her  letter  on  a  book,  and  rejoicing  at  her  success,  was  turning 
towards  the  door,  when  she  perceived  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
standing  near  her.  He  had  come  by  the  private  staircase,  and 
entered  unheard.  She  remained  petrified.  Even  by  that 
doubtful  light  she  could  detect  the  surprised  expression  of 
his  countenance.  This  was  a  circumstance  so  perfectly  unex- 
pected by  her,  that  Nathalie  lost  all  her  presence  of  mind,  and 
stood  motionless  and  mute.  He  quietly  stooped  on  the  hearth, 
applied  a  match  to  the  embers,  and  in  a  second  had  lit  one  of 
the  waxlights  in  the  sconces  on  either  side  of  the  mirror  over 
the  mantel-piece. 

"  You  came  to  look  at  my  books  !"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
"  Well,  you  will  find,  as  I  said,  poems,  and  even  novels,  amoucst 
them." 

He  spoke  in  a  light,  jesting  tone,  as  if  it  were  perfectly  na- 
tural for  him  to  find  her  at  this  hour  in  an  apartment  which 
was  his  so  exclusively;  but  though  he  probably  did  so  in  order 
to  dispel  her  embarrassment,  Nathalie  could  see  his  keen,  rapid 
look  wandering  restlessly  from  her  to'  the  table.  She  could 
also  see,  in  the  mirror  before  her,  that  she  was  very  pale,  and 
she  felt  herself  trembling. 

'•  Sir,"  she  began  in  a  faltering  tone,  '•  I  feel  how  sur- 
prised  " 

"  No,  I  was  not  much  surprised,"  he  interrupted ;  '•  my 
first  impression  was  that  nothing  but  a  ghost  or  spirit  could 
move  so  softly  ;  it  not  being,  however,  the  witching  time  of  mid- 
night, I  concluded  that  Mademoiselle  Amanda,  who  has  rather 
a  literary  turn,  had  come  here  for  an  hour's  reading  ;  but  she 
does  not  wear  that  simple  brown  dress,  by  which  I  perceived 
it  mus*  be  you." 

Mademoiselle  Amanda  was,  indeed,  twice  as  smart  as  Nath- 
alie, who  had  persisted  in  retaining  the  simple,  quaker-like 
costume  she  wore  at  Mademoiselle  Dantin's ;  her  motive,  it 
must  be  confessed,  being  far  more  akin  to  pride  than  to  the 
lowlv  virtue  of  humility.  Far  from  displeasing,  the  allusion 
of  her  host  rather  gratified  her,  or  rather  would  have  gratified 
her,  if  she  could  have  thought  of  any  thing  save  her  present 
awkward  predicament. 

'' Sir,"  she  resumed,  a  little  more  composedly, '•  I  know 
YOU  must  wonder -" 


286 


^'ATHALIE. 


"  Wonder — no  !     I  wondci-  at  nothing." 
"  Allow  me,  sir  ;  it  must  look  strange, — but  1  did  not  coma 
here  at  this  hour  without  having  a  motive  for  doing  so.     There 
was  a  letter "     She  looked  at  the  table,  covered  with  pa- 
pers, and  could  not  see  her  epistle. 

"  You  put  it  on  that  Encyclopedia,^'  said  be,  quietly.     Ho 
stepped  forward,  took  up  the  letter,  glanced  at  the  name  writ 
ten  on  the  back,  broke  the  seal,  and  read  it  deliberately. 

'•  So,"  said  he,  looking  up  with  a  steady  glance,  at  Nathalie, 
"  you  warn  me  that  you  are  going ;  thank  me  for  my  hospi- 
tality, many  kindnesses,  and  so  forth.  Pray,  may  I  ask  you 
why  you  have  resolved  on  this  precipitate  departure  V 

"  Because  your  nephew  has  returned,  sir,"  gravely  replied 
Nathalie. 

"  Be  easy,  then ;  unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  he  will  leave 
to-morrow.  He  came  without  my  permission,  and  shall  depart 
through  my  order." 

He  looked  stern  and  forbidding. 
"  You  remain,  of  course  ?"  he  added,  after  awhile. 
"  No,  sir,"  she   seriously  answered,  '•  I  have  taken  the  re- 
solve to  leave  Sainville."     She  spoke  with  some  emphasis. 

_"  Taken  the  resolve  to  leave  Sainville  !"  he  echoed,  with  a 
smile,  as  if  he  scarcely  held  this  to  be  serious.  "  My  child, 
never  '  take  a  resolve  ;'  next  to  a  vow  it  is  the  most  foolish 
thing  I  know."  He  spoke  slowly,  uttering  word  by  word. 
Nathalie  looked  at  him  with  startling  suddenness. 
"  Foolish  !  you  think  a  vow  foolish  !"  she  exclaimed.  Eao-e- 
inquiry  was  in  her  fixed  look  and  parted  lips. 

"  Foolish  and  absurd,"  he  deliberately  answered ;  "  but 
what  interest  do  you  feel  in  this  ?  Have  you  been  taking  a 
vow,  that  you  look  so  startled  ?  Believe  me  :  break  your 
vow,  on  the  principle  that,  as  to  take  it  was  foolish,  to  keep  it 
would  be  sinful." 

"  You  do  not  think  a  vow  binding  ?"  asked  Nathalie  in  a 
low  tone. 

"  Not  unless  when  it  happnns  to  be  a  promise.  Was 
yours  a  promise  ?" 

'•  No  ;  at  least  I  do  not  think  so."  She  spoke  hesitatingly 
but  her  face  was  radiant  with  joy. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  and  looking  at  her  atten- 
tively ;  "  I  see  I  have  been  a  good  casuist,  and  removed  your 
Bcruples  ;  and  now  tell  me  what  cloud  has  been  on  you  these 
two  days,  that  you  have  remained  either  invisible  or  m-ito  1" 


KATllAUn.  2Sf 

She  colored  deeply,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  I  had  a  bad  headache,"  she  answered  at  length. 
He  smiled  rather  skeptically,  but  merely  said  : 

'•  Is  it  gone  V 

His  look  and  tone  made  her  at  once  recover  her  composure, 
and  she  very  coolly  replied : 

"  Oh  !  dear,  no  !" 

He  did  not  insist,  but  negligently  taking  up  her  letter, 
observed : 

"  Of  course  this  is  non-avenu  ;  you  remain  1  "What !  you 
ook  doubtful  ?  Did  I  not  tell  you  Charles  was  going  away  to- 
aiorrow  ? 

He  spoke  with  stern  brevity.  Few  persons  would  have 
3ared  to  interfere  in  a  matter  on  which  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
Iiad  once  pronounced  ;  yet  it  was  this  Nathalie  now  ventured 
to  do. 

"  Madame  Marceau  is  very  ill,  sir,"  she  urged  appealingly. 

"  She  is,  and  therefore  I  did  not  order  Charles  to  leave  the 
house  immediately." 

'•  Order  !"  she  had  not  thought  he  could  be  so  severe  and 
imperious  as  this  one  word  proved  him.  He  looked  at  her  at- 
tentively, then  said  with  some  abruptness  : 

"  You  understand  the  nature  of  a  contract,  do  you  not  V 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  do;" 

"  Well,  then,  a  contract  has  been  passed  between  Charles 
and  me.  For  the  sake  of  certain  advantages  I  need  not  detail, 
he  has,  of  his  own  free  will,  agreed  to  obey  me  on  all  points  save 
one ;  it  was  I  who  stipulated  that  on  that  point  he  should  bo 
his  own  master.  Had  he  preferred  total  independence,  ho 
might  have  had  it ;  nor  would  I  have  allowed  my  sister's  son  to 
struggle  unaided  through  the  world,  but  he  chose  to  place  his 
neck  under  the  yoke  in  order  to  ascend  more  rapidly.  I  warn- 
ed him  that  I  would  have  entire  submission  or  none ;  he  con- 
sented ;  yet,  has  already  violated  the  contract  twice.  It  is  now 
broken  for  ever." 

All  this  was  very  clear  and  logical,  and  because  it  wan 
so  logical,  Nathalie,  who  ever  acted  from  impulse,  thought  it. 
hard. 

'•  Confess  that  you  think  me  despotic?"  said  Monsieur  de 
Sainville. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Nathalie,  a  little  confused,  "  it  is  only 
justice." 

"  But  a  sort  of  justice  you  do  not  like  V 


283  NATHALli:. 

'■'•  Madame  Marceau  is  very  ill,  sir." 

"  Do  you  imagine  she  wishes  for  his  presence  here  ?  Do  you 
imagine  he  consulted  her  feelings  when  he  returned?" 

"  She  may  be  angry  with  him,  sir  ;  but  she  cannot  but  be 
deeply  grieved  at  your  anger." 

"  He  has  broken  the  contract ;  it  cannot  be  helped." 

'■'•  Madame  Marceau  is  very  ill.  sir." 

"  I  am  afraid  she  is." 

"  The  shock  may  injure  her." 

He  said  nothing. 

"Yes,  indeed,  it  may  injure  her  very  much,"  she  persisted. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  ought  to  forgive  Charles  this 
second  disobedience?" 

'•  Yes,  sir,  I  do." 

'•  Then  ask  me." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  tone  :  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast ;  his 
look  was  downcast,  and  did  not  once  seek  hers. 

Nathalie  thought  her  ear  must  have  deceived  her,  and  eyed 
iiim  with  a  perplexed  glance. 

"  You  will  not?"  said  he,  turning  towards  her  ;  "you  are 
too  proud  to  prefer  a  request?" 

"  No,  sir,  but "  she  paused. 

"  I  see,  I  must  explain  myself,"  he  resumed  ;  "  have  yon 
never  read  that  legend  of  the  perturbed  spirit  that  must  be 
questioned  before  it  can  speak  ?  Suppose  that  we  take  another 
version  of  the  legend :  that  it  is  a  spirit  that  must  be  asked  a 
boon  by  some  pure  mortal  before  it  can  grant  it?" 

"  But,  sir,"  said  Nathalie  seriously,  "  there  are  no  spirits 
in  this  case." 

"  How  do  you  know  1  What  do  you  know  about  spirits  and 
their  ways  ?  Why  should  not  men  be  possessed  now  by  them, 
as  in  the  time  when  the  Gospel  was  preached?" 

"  Those  were  evil  spirits,  sir." 

"  Ay,  and  they  have  not  yet  left  this  earth  ;  they  daily  go 
forth  amongst  us  and  tenant  many  a  human  frame.  Child,  are 
not  our  evil  passions  spirits  that  need  some  pure  intiuence  to 
cast  them  forth?  Is  not  will,  tyranny  ;  is  not  pride  the  sin  of 
Satan  ?" 

Still  Nathalie  hesitated.  She  did  not  understand  why 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  wished  to  be  asked  that  which  he  now 
seemed  willing  to  yield. 

"  Then,  I  suppose, sir,"  she  hesitatingly  observed,  "you  would 
grant  a  request?" 


NATIIALIE.  289 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  know,  and  yet  have  not  courage  to 
brave  the  spirits  whose  existence  you  denied?" 

'•  Monsieur  de  Sainville,"  said  Nathalie,  somewhat  piqued, 
"  I  ask  you  to  forgive  your  nephew." 

"  See  what  a  little  daring  can  do,"  he  replied  with  a  smile ; 
'•the  evil  spirit  retires  subdued;  the  boon  is  granted.  What 
would  my  proud  sister  say  if  she  knew  that  the  young  girl, 
whom  her  son  must  not  hope  to  marry  with  her  consent,  has 
saved  that  son  from  a  grievous  fall  ?  And  yet  this  is  rather 
awkward,"  he  added  after  a  pause  ;  "  for  though  she  knows 
nothing  yet,  I  have  already  told  Charles  it  was  all  over  be- 
tween us.  I  must  retract,  I  suppose.  Well,  we  will  not  talk 
of  this  just  now.     I  have  a  question  to  ask  you." 

"  Sir,"  said  Nathalie,  uneasily  glancing  at  the  clock,  "  it  .s 
late  ;  had  I  not  better  go?" 

"  Why  so  ?  I  shall  not  detain  you  long  ;  and  you  surely  do 
not  think  there  is  any  harm  in  talking  here  with  me  a  few  mo- 
ments ?" 

He  spoke  very  seriously,  and  she  quite  as  seriously  replied  : 

"  No,  sir." 

"I  have  only  a  brief  question  to  put:  You  meant  to  leave 
Sainville;  what  were  your  intentions  for  the  future?" 

He  slowly  turned  round  as  if  to  see  her  better  whilst  she 
delivered  the  expected  reply.  Nathalie  felt  somewhat  embar- 
rassed. She  had  looked  on  that  momentous  subject  with  all 
the  delightful  vagueness  of  years  ;  the  future  to  her  was  some 
undefined  good  in  store  ;  a  broad  realm  of  which  she  was  sove- 
reign lady  ;  which  she  had  but  to  enter,  win  and  possess. 

'•  I  had  no  intentions  for  the  future,"  she  at  length  replied, 
"  but  the  world  was  before  me ;  I  am  young ;  I  could  work, 
strive,  and  if  needs  be,  endure."  She  spoke  earnestly,  and 
therefore  was  no  little  piqued  to  perceive  her  host  looking  down 
at  her  with  a  skeptical  yet  not  unkind  smile: 

"  Oh  !  wise  daring  of  youth !"  he  returned ;  "  you  are 
eighteen  ;  that  is  to  say,  just  more  than  a  child  ;  and  you  talk 
of  trying  your  fortunes,  without  doubt,  without  fear  1" 

"  I  have  no  fortunes  to  try  ;  I  simply  meant  to  live." 

"  And  living  in  our  pleasant,  social  state  is  in  itself  a  sin- 
gular share  of  good  fortune.  Have  you  any  idea  of  the 
struggles  a  woman,  especially,  must  go  through,  in  order  to 
earn  her  daily  bread  ?  And  you,  so  proud,  so  heedless,  so  con- 
fiding, so  frank, — you  actually  contemplated  that  destiny ! 
And   how  you  would  have  trusted  and  been  deceived,"  he 

13 


290  NATHALIE. 

added,  eyeing  her  compassionately ;  "  by  women  especially , 
You  are  credulous  by  nature  ;  do  not  look  so  indignant ;  I  give 
you  my  word  I  have  a  sincere  respect  for  a  certain  sort  of  ig- 
norance,— credulous,  as  I  said,  and  trusting ;  consequently, 
easily  imposed  upon." 

'•  Really,  sir,"  said  Nathalie,  coloring,  and  looking  almost 
offended,  "  all  this  is  not  very  flattering." 

"  Is  it  not  ?  Would  you  have  preferred  hearing  me  address 
you  in  this  strain  ? — '  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  I  admire  your 
resolve  to  enter  at  once  into  the  great  social  strife.  I  feel  con- 
fident so  enterprising  and  prudent  a  young  lady  will  emerge 
triumphantly  from  every  difficulty.  Your  shrewdness  and 
sagacity  render  it  of  course  impossible  that  man  should  ever 
deceive  or  woman  outwit  you.'  Come,  would  you  have  pre- 
ferred this?" 

"  No,  sir ;  but  surely  there  is  such  a  thing  as  not  being 
outwitted,  nor  yet  outwitting." 

"  The  medium  course ;  no  ; — believe  me,  that  is  rare — rare  ! 
it  is  impossible." 

"  Then  I  wonder  how  many  people  you  have  outwitted  in 
your  time?"  promptly  thought  Nathalie. 

"  You  may  as  well  say  it  aloud,"  he  observed,  with  a  smile, 
'•  Well,  I  have  outwitted  a  good  many,  no  doubt ;  but  do  not 
draw  wrong  conclusions ;  I  am  no  disciple  of  Machiavel.  I 
give  you  my  word,"  he  emphatically  added,  "  that  I  have  never 
deceived,  save  where  an  attempt  to  deceive  me  had  first  been 
made;  then,  of  course,  it  was  self-defence — as  legitimate  as  it 
was  easy." 

,  Nathalie  gave  him  a  curious  and  astonished  look. 

"  I  see,"  he  continued,  "  that  you  are  longing  to  know  how 
this  easy  art  is  managed ;  I  will  tell  you,  because,  even  when 
you  know  it,  it  is  an  art  you  will  never  learn  ;  otherwise,  1 
should  not  open  my  lips.  This  great  art  is,  to  let  the  indi- 
vidual who  attempts  to  deceive  me  believe  that  he  or  she  has 
succeeded — no  more.  You  look  disappointed — ^you  think,  is 
this  all  ?  You  had  imagined  subtle  plans  and  deep  counter- 
Bcheming.  No,  believe  me,  all  that  is  shallow,  tedious  and 
useless ;  deceivers  are  always  prepared  for  either  counter- 
schemes  or  entire  success  :  they  are,  moreover,  weak  and  vain, 
like  other  mortals ;  they  believe  in  the  success  of  their  wit, 
when  they  do  not  find  it  opposed  by  scheming;  the  thing  they 
are  least  prepared  for  is,  that  their  plans  should  be  detected, 
and  yet  not  met  by  other  plans.  You  see,  there  is  nothing 
very  heinous  in  my  system— I  deceive  passively." 


NATHALIE.  29  i 

"  Since  it  is  so  easy,  sir,  why  should  I  not  try?" 

"  Because  you  would  fail.  You  cannot  deceive,  evcii 
passively." 

"This  is  not  deceiving — it  is  only  not  allowing  one's  sol/ 
to  be  seen  throuc;h." 

"  Precisely  :  it  is  the  art  of  being  opaque." 

He  did  not  add,  "  and  you  are  transparent ;"  but  she  felt 
it  was  implied. 

"  Then  I  shall  always  be  imposed  upon?" 

"  Very  often,  I  fear." 

"  And  it  is  foolish  to  be  deceived  easily  ?" 

"  Why  so  ?  It  is  not  by  talent  that  people  deceive,  nor  by 
talent  that  they  oppose  deceit;  this  is  not  a  question  of  mind, 
but  of  character.  A  fool  may  lay  a  scheme  that  shall  impose 
on  a  genius,  yet  he  is  still  a  fool,  and  the  genius  is  a  genius. 
If  I  mention  all  this,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause,  "  it  is  to 
satisfy,  not  to  serve  you — ^you  will  be  deceived  as  easily  as  if  I 
had  never  spoken." 

"  Sir,"  said  Nathalie,  rather  piqued  at  these  repeated  asser- 
tions, "I  do  not  trust  every  one  as  you  seem  to  think." 

'•  Do  you  not  ?  I  had  imagined  you  were  in  a  state  of  uni- 
versal faith." 

"  Oh  !  dear,  no  !"  quite  coolly. 

"  In  whom,  then,  do  you  trust?  What!  no  reply?  This 
looks  serious.     I  shall  begin  by  myself;  do  you  trust  me?" 

He  spoke  in  that  light  tone  beneath  which  he  often  con- 
veyed some  graver  meaning ;  but  the  look  he  bent  upon  her 
was  singularly  keen  and  penetrating. 

Nathalie  looked  grave,  or,  as  it  is  so  well  expressed  by  the 
French  word,  recueillie. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  do,"  she  slowly  answered. 

"  But  in  a  vague  way, — no  more  ?  ' 

He  still  spoke  inquiringly.     She  looked  up. 

''  Entirely,"  was  her  reply 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  I  can  see  you  mean  it,"  he  said  at  length ;  "  there  is  faith 
in  your  look, — in  your  voice.  Yet  see  how  imprudent  you  are  ! 
Why  on  earth  should  you  trust  me  ?  How  can  you  actually 
know  that  I  deserve  your  confidence?" 

"  And  when  one  knows,"  she  quickly  said,  "  where  is  the 
trust  ?" 

She  instantly  repented  the  words,  and  colored  deeply ;  but 
though  she  almost  fancied  that  a  faint  tinge  of  color  rose  to 


29)1  NATHAI.ir:. 

her  host's  pale  cheek,  he  neither  looked  round  nor  seemed  to 
have  heard  her,  as  he  stood  there,  leaning  against  the  table, 
and  facing  the  dark  fireplace.  But  he  had  heard  her,  never- 
theless, for  he  said,  quietly  : 

"  You  have  given  an  excellent  definition  of  '  trust ;'  far  too 
good,  indeed,  for  one  who  meant  to  go  forth,  and  brave  the 
struggles  of  life.  My  poor  child,  dream  no  more  of  leaving 
Sainville.  When  you  talk  of  that  so  calmly,  I  seem  to  see  a 
child  indeed — smiling  on  a  plank,  tossed  by  a  raging  sea.  Be 
lieve  me,  it  is  good  to  be  here  :  it  is  good  to  be  sheltered  by  the 
substantial  walls  and  broad  roof  of  my  old  chateau  ;  it  is  good  to 
sit  in  quiet  by  the  hearth  of  domestic  peace,  and  ihence  listen  to 
the  din  and  strife  of  the  storm  without ;  to  have  no  other  con- 
cern with  those  wild  sounds,  save  that  they  lull  you  to  a  repose 
more  sweet  and  deep ;  to  see  and  hear  the  waves  breaking 
around  you,  and  to  feel  that  the  dark  tide  will  never  even 
reach  or  wet  your  feet.  Trust  me,  child  ;  I  am  an  old  pilot : 
the  struggles  of  my  existence  began  when  you  were  yet  sleep- 
ing peacefully  in  your  cradle.  You  have  scarcely  felt  the  first 
keen  breezes,  and  you  are  daring  and  hopeful  still.  But  I, 
who  have  weathered  many  a  storm,  and  gained  at  last  this  safe 
refuge,  I  would  keep  you  here,  and  save  you  from  years  of  toil, 
destined,  perchance,  to  end  in  dismal  wreck.  Remain,  my 
child,  remain  !" 

They  stood  not  far  asunder.  He  gently  laid  his  hand 
upon  her  head,  and  looked  down  into  her  flushed  and  listening 
face  with  serious  and  afi"ectionate  tenderness. 

She  looked  as  agitated  as  he  seemed  calm.  Her  heart 
beat  so  fast,  that  she  feared  he  must  end  by  hearing  its  tumul- 
tuous throbbings.  Hope,  and  a  joy  almost  delirious,  were  with 
her  for  a  moment;  for  she  said  to  herself  that  she  had  found  . 
that  safer  hand  to  which  she  longed  to  trust  her  barque  that* 
same  morning.  He  was  silent  now ;  but  she  still  seemed  to 
hear  his  low,  kind  voice  saying,  "  Remain,  my  child,  remain  !" 
She  heard  no  other  sounds ;  but  he  did.  He  heard  the  hur- 
ried footsteps  overhead,  the  sudden  opening  of  a  door,  the  vio- 
lent ringing  of  a  bell ;  and  removing  his  hand  from  Nathalie's 
head,  he  exclaimed: 

"  What  has  happened  ?" 

The  sounds  came  from  his  sister's  room,  which  was  exactly 
over  the  library  ;  he  knew  it,  looked  disturbed,  and  went  to  the 
door ;  then  suddenly  came  back,  as  Nathalie  was  going  to  fol 
low  him. 


NATHALIE.  293 

"  Do  not  go,"  said  he  ;  "  I  have  granted  you  a  request — 
grant  me  this.  Remain  here  until  I  return.  I  have  more  to 
pay.     You  do  not  refuse,  do  you  ?"• 

"  No,  sir."     But  she  spoke  hesitatingly. 

"  You  look  timid.  Are  you  afraid  to  remain  here  alone, 
my  child  ?  I  am  only  going  to  see  what  it  is  ;  I  shall  soon  be 
back." 

He  led  her  to  a  chair,  made  her  sit  down,  and  assuring  her, 
with  a  smile,  that  he  should  not  be  long  away,  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


She  remained  alone. 

Scarcely  had  the  door  closed  on  Monsieur  do  Sainville, 
when  she  heard  him  briefly  inquiring : 

"  Charles,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  My  mother  is  ill,  sir,"  answered  the  young  man's  voice  in 
the  hall. 

'•  What  has  made  her  so  ?" 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  Charles,  what  has  made  your  mother  ill  ?  She  seemed 
no  worse  than  usual  when  she  went  up  to  her  room.  Have  you 
been  talking  to  her  ?"  he  added,  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  have." 

"  And  what  have  you  been  saying  to  her?" 

"  Only  what  you  were  kind  enough  to  tell  me,"  replied  the 
young  man  with  some  bitterness. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  did  not  answer,  but  Nathalie  heard 
him  ordering  a  servant  to  ride  off  for  the  doctor ;  then  his  step 
ascended  the  staircase, — ere  long  she  heard  it  iu  the  room 
above, — but  in  a  few  moments  all  was  still.  There  was  a  long 
silence,  unbroken  save  by  a  low,  monotonous  sound, — the  ^und 
of  speech.  Sometimes  she  thought  it  rose  almost  to  altercation, 
— at  other  times  it  wholly  ceased.  At  length  she  heard  the 
^tep  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville  again  ;  she  thought  he  was  com- 
ing down,  and,  bending  forward,  listened  eagerly : — no  ;  he  was 
merely  pacing  his  sister's  room  to  and  fro.  She  sank  back  on 
her  seat  with  an  impatient  and  disappointed  sigh,  and  looking 
abstractedly  around  her.     The  fire  was  out,  the  solitary  wax- 


294  NATHALIE. 

light  burned  with  u  palfc  flickering  ray  lost  in  that  wido  room 
The  bust  looked  white,  spectre-like,  and  yet  living  ;  for  a  mo- 
ment the  young  girl  almost  imagined  that  the  cynical,  though 
strangely  intellectual  head  of  Voltaire  smiled  down  sarcastical- 
ly at  her  from  its  cornice,  whilst  the  serene  and  ideal  face  of 
Fenelon  gazed  on  her  with  gentle  reproach  ; — the  one  deriding, 
the  other  mildly  reproving  the  folly  of  her  thoughts.  A  small 
volume  lay  open  on  a  table  before  her, — she  took  it  up ;  it  was 
the  imitation  of  Jesus  Christ,  open  at  the  sixth  chapter  of  the 
first  book  ;  she  read  the  chapter  through.  Of  what  did  it  treat? 
Of  the  vanity  of  inordinate  affections  ;  of  dying  to  the  flesh  ; 
of  the  perishable  nature  of  all  human  feelings ;  of  the  peace 
which  dwells  in  a  passionless  heart.  She  laid  it  down  impa- 
tiently. The  book  of  human  skepticism  and  that  of  religious 
faith — La  Rochefoucauld  and  Thomas  a  Kempis — still  told  the 
same  story. 

He  had  said  that  he  would  soon  return,  but  an  hour  elaps- 
ed and  yet  he  came  not ;  at  length  the  door  opened, — he  enter- 
ed. He  looked  grave  and  moody ;  a  cloud  passed  over  his 
brow  as  he  saw  Nathalie. 

"  You  remained?"  he  said,  as  if  he  had  not  expected  to 
find  her  there. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  you  made  me  promise  to  stay." 

He  neither  looked  at  her  nor  spoke. 

"  To  hear  something  you  had  to  say,"  she  continued. 

He  merely  said  "  Ah !"  abstractedly,  and  began  walking 
up  and  down  the  room.  Nathalie  eyed  him  with  mute  surprise. 

"  How  is  Madame  Marceau,  sir  ?"  she  asked,  after  a  pause 
of  wonder. 

He  evidently  did  not  hear  her  ;  she  had  to  repeat  her  ques- 
tion.    He  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled  somewhat  bitterly. 

"  Very  ill,  indeed,''  he  at  length  replied ;  "  very  ill,  indeed. 

Worse,  I  believe,  than  she  herself  imagines ;  else "  he  broke 

off,  and  once  more  paced  the  room  up  and  down. 

Nathalie  rose  to  leave ;  he  perceived  it,  walked  up  to  her, 
took  her  hand,  and  looking  down  at  her  with  some  emotion,  said  : 

"  You  wish  to  go — I  do  not  detain  you — I  have  nothing  to 
say — You  came  too  late  :  The  evil  spirit  I  asked  you  to  con- 
jure and  subdue  has  turned  round,  and,  before  taking  flight, 
cast  on  me  the  spell  of  Guddcn  silence.  It  might  have  been 
well  for  me  had  I  been  less  harsh — had  I  not  driven  matters 
to  a  crisis :  but  it  is  too  late  to  repent.  I  thought  myself  wise, 
prudent  and  clear-aighted,  when  I  was  blind  and  foolish ;  I 


Nathalie.  '  295 

thought  I  could  control  time,  circumstance,  and  the  will  ot 
those  around  me  ;  and  I  have  lived  to  be  baffled.  For  myself 
I  care  not ;  but  I  grieve  for  you.  I  thought  I  could  make 
your  path  smooth  and  pleasant :  that  I  could  spare  you  trouble 
and  fainting  of  the  heart  in  your  little  journey,  and  now,  I  find 
that  it  is  not  so ;  that  the  course  I  thought  to  shape  for  you 
must  be  of  your  own  choosing  ;  that  if  you  wish  to  reach  that 
shore  where  happiness  awaits  you,  you  must  walk  to  it  as  Peter 
walked  over  the  stormy  flood — through  faith  : — But  alas  !  alone, 
and  without  the  helping  band.  God  knows  I  foriake  you  not 
willingly  ;  but  every  man  is  jealous  of  his  honor,  and  never  yet 
has  there  been  a  stain  on  mine.  Just  I  will  be,  no  matter  at 
what  cost.  Good  night ; — but  no  ;  we  cannot  part  thus.  Tell 
me  once  again  that  you  have  faith  in  me.  You  hesitate  :  do 
you  wish  to  retract  ?" 

"  I  retract  nothing." 

"  But  you  look  bewildered  ; — -well  you  may — the  test  is  too 
severe." 

"  Severe  as  it  will  be,  I  care  not." 

He  eyed  her  wistfully. 

"  Take  care,"  he  said ;  "  every  man  has  his  weakness,  which 
is  to  him  as  his  vulnerable  heel  to  Achilles ;  and  mine  is  to  be 
trusted  in — blindly.     That  you  cannot  do." 

'•  Why  not  ?"  she  asked,  looking  up  with  flushed  face  and 
kindling  glance  ;  "  why  not  ?" 

"  What !  even  though  that  which  I  cannot  and  will  not 
deny,  which  will  grieve  and  wound  you,  should  be  brought  up 
and  laid  before  you  ?    What  even  then  ?" 

There  was  a  brief  pause  ;  he  eyed  her  keenly. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  even  then." 

"  Promise." 

"  I  promise." 

A  sudden  change  came  over  him  ;  a  flush  rose  to  his  brow ; 
nis  look  lit,  his  lip  trembled.  He  drew  her  towards  him,  and 
looked  down  into  her  burning  face  ;  then  stooped  eagerly — to 
draw  back,  release  her,  and  turn  pale  the  next  moment. 

"  Good  night,"  said  he,  in  a  wholly  altered  tone  ;  "  it  is  late, 
I  detain  you  not ;  rest  well,  you  will  need  it — good  night." 

She  left  him,  and  went  up  to  her  room.  The  door  stood 
half  open ;  but  though  she  had  closed  it  carefully  on  leaving, 
she  now  heeded  not  this  ;  there  seemed  a  veil  upon  her  eyes, 
and  a  mist  on  her  thoughts.  She  paced  the  narrow  room  up 
and  down  with  feverish  haste,  and  asked  herself  one  ceaseless 
question : 


296  NATHALIE, 

'=  What  did  lie  mean  ?  What  did  he  mean  when  he  told 
me  to  promise — when  he  drew  me  towards  him,  and  looked 
down  into  my  face  so  eagerly?  what  did  he  mean  then  V 

Her  brow  throbbed  and  burned  ;  her  veins  seemed  running 
fire,  and  her  head  swam  for  a  moment.  The  atmosphere  of 
the  room  felt  gtifling ;  she  opened  her  window,  leaned  her 
burning  brow  against  the  iron  bar  of  thj  little  balcony,  and 
offered  it  to  the  cool  night  air. 

There  is  a  calm  and  solemn  beauty  in  the  aspect  of  the 
night,  which  soothes  down  the  fevered  and  over-wrought  spirit 
to  its  own  deep  and  holy  repose ;  the  scenes  we  gaze  on  daily 
then  borrow  from  the  hour  a  shadowy  and  mysterious  loveli- 
ness. To  behold  in  gloom  that  which  we  have  never  seen  but 
in  the  free  and  open  light  of  day,  is  to  enter  on  a  new  and  un- 
knov/n  world,  where  all  looks  strange,  indistinct,  and  vast. 

As  Nathalie  gazed  on  the  scene  below  her,  she  felt  in  her 
something  of  that  secret  communion  which  never  wholly  ceases 
between  nature  and  the  human  heart.  The  moon  shone  dimly 
with  a  vague  and  doubtful  light,  ever  and  anon  obscured  by 
dark  and  swiftly-passing  clouds.  It  had  been  raining,  as  she 
•could  feel  by  the  humid  freshness  of  the  air ;  a  few  drops  still 
fell  with  the  murmuring  gusts  of  wind  that  swept  along  the 
garden  avenues,  and  slowly  died  away  in  their  distant  recesses. 
The  tall  and  shadowy  lime-trees  of  the  avenue  waved  in  dark 
masses  against  the  gloomy  sky ;  sometimes  the  whole  garden 
lay  wrapped  in  silent  obscurity,  until  the  breeze  rose,  and  with 
many  vague  murmurs,  swept  the  clouds  away,  and  the  moon 
dimly  shining,  revealed  the  contrast  of  the  dark  7Ja?-^erres,  with 
their  white  gravel-walks,  and  some  pale  and  solitary  statue 
faintly  gleaming  through  the  gloom  of  its  niche. 

The  silence  and  freshness  of  the  hour  gradually  calmed 
Nathalie  ;  her  brow  no  longer  throbbed  and  burned,  and  her 
pulse  ceased  to  beat  feverishly.  The  slight  delirium  which 
had  agitated  her  vanished ;  she  abandoned  herself  to  thought, 
in  a  mood  now  chastened  and  subdued,  when  a  sound  below 
arrested  her  attention.  She  eagerly  bent  over  the  balcony^ 
and  looked,  but  all  she  could  see  was,  that  two  figures  emerged 
tlirough  the  glass  door  from  the  library.  They  paused  awhile, 
in  low  converse,  on  the  stone  steps  which  led  into  the  garden  ; 
then  one  of  the  figures  re-entered  the  apartment ;  the  other 
remained  standing  for  full  five  minutes  in  the  same  spot,  with- 
out so  much  as  changing  its  attitude.  Nathalie  thought  she 
recognized  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ;  but  who  was  the  other '? — 


NATHALIE.  297 

some   servant;    his  nephew,  perhaps!     What  could  they  be 
doing  there  at  that  hour  ? 

Monsieur  de  Sainville — for  she  now  knew  that  it  was  he- 
moved  on,  and  entered  one  of  the  walks.  For  some  time  she 
could  distinguish  his  receding  figure  ;  finally  it  vanisked.  It 
was  a  full  half-hour  before  he  re-appeared,  coming  ai  a  slow 
pace  along  a  walk  exactly  opposite  her.  The  moon  now  shone 
bright  and  clear  ;  the  lights  fell  full  on  his  face.  Nathalie 
could  see  every  feature  as  distinctly  as  by  day ;  at  first,  his 
folded  arms  and  downcast  glance  made  her  feel  doubtful — she 
might  well  have  been  deceived  ;  but  when  he  suddenly  paused, 
and  looked  up,  she  could  not  doubt — it  was  sadness,  yes,  deep 
sadness  every  grave  feature  betrayed.  He  paced  the  alley  to 
and  fro  ;  she  watched,  with  feverish  interest,  the  moment  of  his 
return,  but  every  time  his  countenance  met  her  look,  it  wore 
the  same  mournful  meaning.  Why  was  he  sad  ?  Was  the 
memory  of  old  times  with  him  ?  Did  it  haunt  him  still,  when 
years,  and  the  impassable  barrier  of  the  grave,  both  bade  him 
to  forget?  One  moment  she  felt  saddened  ;  but  the  next,  a 
voice  whispered  in  her  heart ;  "  You  are  young  and  beautiful ; 
you  know  it ;  he  knows  it,  too — why,  then,  need  you  care  for 
the  past  V 

A  low  knock  at  the  door  disturbed  her ;  she  went  and 
found  Amanda  standing  in  the  dark  corridor,  with  a  light  in 
her  hand. 

"  How  fortunate  that  mademoiselle  is  not  yet  undressed," 
she  exclaimed  ;  "  Madame  so  much  wishes  to  speak  to  made- 
moiselle." 

"  To  speak  to  me  !"  said  Nathalie,  much  surprised.  Aman- 
da quietly  assented. 

Nathalie  thoughtfully  followed  her  down  stairs.  "  How  is 
Madame  Marceau  now  ?"  she  asked,  as  they  reached  the  first 
floor-landing. 

"  Much  better.  Dr.  Laurent  has  given  her  a  composing 
draught." 

'•  Will  mademoiselle  wait  here,  whilst  I  go  in  ?"  whispered 
Amanda. 

She  handed  the  light  she  held  to  Nathalie,  who  entered 
the  drawing-room  ;  Amanda  opened  the  door  of  Madame  Mar- 
ceau's  room.  She  did  not  close  it,  and  the  sound  of  voices 
within  reached  Nathalie's  ear. 

"  Charles,"  said  the  feverish   voice  of  Madame  Marceau, 
^  remember  you  have  given  me  your  word  !" 
13* 


198  NATHALIE. 

."  Be  content,"  he  replied  rather  impatiently  :  "  1  will  nol 
breathe  a  word  you  would  wish  unsaid." 

He  came  out  and  entered  the  drawing-room  as  he  spoke. 

"  May  I  speak  to  you  ?"  he  asked  in  his  low  musical  tones, 
and  approaching  the  spot  where  Nathalie  stood. 

She  coldly  assented.  The  short  dialogue  she  had  chanced 
to  overhear,  gave  her  little  relish  for  a  conversation  which  it 
seemed  was  to  be  subject  to  the  proud  lady's  restrictions. 

"  Did  my  sudden  return  offend  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Offend  me,  sir  ?     Why  should  it  ?" 

'■•  True  ;  what  is  it  to  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  ;  the  resigned  expression  of  her  counte- 
nance stung  him  more  deeply  than  anger. 

"  So  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  are  still  pitiless  ? — still  inexor 
able  V 

She  could  not  repress  a  haughty  smile. 

"  Inexorable,  sir  !  This  implies  resentment ; — I  feel  none. 
The  harm  you  may  once  have  done  me,  has  long  been  repaired 
by  other  members  of  your  family." 

"  I  understand, — my  uncle  ; — and  is  it  for  his  sake  you  are 
so  good  as  not  to  hate  me  ?" 

Their  looks  met ;  there  was  little  love  on  either  side. 

"  Sir."  calmly  answered  Nathalie,  "  I  must  remove  this  mis- 
take of  yours  once  for  all.  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  have 
never  hated  you,  that  I  do  not  hate  you,  and  that  were  we 
both  to  live  until  the  end  of  time,  nothing  should  ever  induce 
me  to  hate  you." 

Charles  Marceau  eyed  her  from  head  to  foot,  with  a  look 
and  smile  that  lived  for  years  in  the  memory  of  the  young 
girl ;  but  he  said  in  his  bland  voice, — 

'•  Your  goodness  overpowers  me  ;  but  I  shall  try,  nay,  I 
shall  seek  opportunities,  to  deserve  it, — believe  me  I  shall." 

Nathalie  involuntarily  shrank  from  him. 

"  I  hope,"  she  began,  but  her  voice  faltered — 

•'  You  hope,"  softly  echoed  Charles. 

"  I  mean  to  say — " 

"  You  mean  to  say,"  he  kindly  repeated — 

'•  I  mean  to  say,  sir,"  she  impetuously  exclaimed,  "  thai 
such  affection  as  yours  takes  the  shape  of  persecution." 

"  You  amaze  me  !"  he  replied  with  imperturbable  coolness. 
'*  Persecution  !  How  could  I  suspect  any  thing  of  the  kind, 
when  you  so  very  kindly  assured  me  of  your  perfect  indiffer- 
ence 1" 


NATHALIE.  299 

The  temper  of  the  Sainville  race,  to  use  a  favorite  expres- 
sion of  Madame  Marceau,  was  not  a  gentle  temper,  but  no  ono 
could  deny  that  it  was  self-possessed.  That  almost  unruffled 
and  aristocratic  smoothness  of  manner  which,  with  every  dif- 
ference of  character,  nevertheless  marked  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville, his  sister,  and  her  son,  had  often  struck  Nathalie,  and 
))ecause  it  was  precisely  that  which  she  herself  wanted,  it  awed 
and  subdued  her  vehement  nature.  What  had  she  to  fear 
from  Charles  Marceau's  resentment  ?  Nothing  that  she  knew 
of;  yet  as  she  saw  him  standing  there  before  her,  and  gazed 
at  his  pale  handsome  face,  and  felt  his  oblique  look  upon  her, 
she  trembled  and  turned  pale.  He  looked  at  her,  smiled, 
quietly  said  he  could  see  she  was  in  no  mood  to  listen  to  him, 
and  left  the  room.  Almost  immediately  Amanda's  head  ap- 
peared through  the  half-open  door,  and  she  signed  Nathalie  to 
follow  her. 

She  found  Madame  Marceau  sitting,  or  rather  reclining, 
in  a  deep  arm-chair  near  the  bed  ;  a  night-lamp  burned  with  a 
dim  and  subdued  light  on  a  low  table  near  her ;  the  room 
looked  indistinct,  and  wellnigh  dark.  Nathalie  approached 
the  arm-chair ;  it  was  a  high-backed  sombre-looking  thing, 
framed  by  that  dark  background,  the  sick  lady's  face  looked 
ghastly  pale,  and  her  sunken  eyes  shone  with  unnatural  fire. 
The  young  girl  asked  how  she  felt. 

"  Much  better.  Petite  ;  much  better.  Petite." 

She  spoke  fast  and  feverishly.  Nathalie  looked  at  her  ;  she 
had  not  undressed  ;  her  toilet  was,  as  usual,  elaborate  and 
rich,  the  result  of  all  skilful  Amanda's  art,  but  Nathalie  felt 
ne  mortal  hand  cculd  now  efi'ace  the  signet  of  death  from  that 
brow. 

"  Come  and  sit  here  by  me,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  disturbed 
you,  but  I  could  not  help  it ;  I  could  not  wait  until  morning, 
— come  and  sit  here  by  me." 

The  young  girl  complied,  and  asked  how  she  had  chanced 
to  be  taken  ill  so  suddenly. 

"  Never  mind.  Petite ;  let  us  come  to  the  point :  what 
have  you  decided?" 

As  she  spoke,  she  took  her  hand,  and  fastened  on  her  face 
an  eager  and  burning  look. 

"  Decided  !  madame  ?" 

"  Yes ;  what  have  you  decided  V 

"  Decided  about  what  ?" 

''  About  my  son,  of  course." 


300  NATHALIE. 

«  Your  son !" 

"Good  heavens!  why  do  you  repeat  my  words  so?  Did 
you  not  see  Charles  this  evening  ?  Do  you  not  know  he  i? 
come  back — come  back  to  remain  V 

"  This  hint  was  not  needed,"  cried  Nathalie,  coloring  deep' 
ly,  and  rising  as  she  spoke. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  abruptly  asked  Madame  Marceau. 
"  I  do  not  understand  you.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Armand 
has  never  hinted  this  to  you?  That  when  he  returned  to  the 
library,  where  you  waited  so  long,  he  never  told  you?" 

Nathalie  quickly  turned  round.  How  did  Madame  Mar- 
ceau know  she  had  been  in  the  library?  that  she  had  waited 
there  for  his  return  ?  Had  he  told  her  ?  "Why  so  ?  What 
did  it  mean  ?     She  felt  and  looked  bewildered. 

"  Told  me  what?"  she  asked,  at  length.  The  lady  did  not 
reply,  buc  looked  slightly  embarrassed.  "  Told  me  what  ?" 
resumed  Nathalie ;  "  that  as  your  son  remains,  I  had  best 
leave?     Was  it  that?" 

"Leave  !"  echoed  the  lady,  smiling;  "how  could  you  ima- 
ji'lne  any  thina;  so  ungracious  ?     Fie  !  leave  !  no — remain." 

*"  -111 

"  Remain  !  madame  ;  remain  ! 

"  Yes ;  remain." 

"  But  how  can  that  be  ?" 

Madame  Marceau  gently  made  her  resume  her  seat,  laid 
her  hand  on  Nathalie's  shoulder,  and  smiled  in  her  face. 

"  As  my  son's  wife,"  she  softly  said. 

She  bent  and  pressed  her  hot,  feverish  lips  on  the  young 
girl',s  brow. 

Nathalie  felt  and  looked  like  one  who  has  received  a  sudden 
unseen  blow. 

"  Foi  heaven's  sake,  Petite,"  observed  Madame  Marceau, 
taking  out  her  vinaigrette,  "let  us  not  have  a  scene  ;  my  nervea 
are  weak.  Armand  might  have  told  you,  and  spared  ma 
this." 

"  He  knows  it !  he  knows  it !"  cried  Nathalie,  seizing  the 
lady's  arm,  and  fastening  a  burning  look  full  in  her  face. 

"  Knows  it !  of  course.  Did  not  Charles  ask  his  consent, 
and  did  he  not  give  it  most  readily  ?  Do  not  look  incredulous. 
Petite  ;  it  is  so — upon  my  word,  it  is  so.  It  was  this  evening, 
whilst  you  were  sitting  below,  waiting  for  him — he  sat  there, 
just  where  you  are  sitting  now,  by  me — Charles  put  it  to  him, 
in  plain  speech  :  '  Uncle,'  he  said,  '  do  you  give  your  consent  ?' 
'  I  do.'     '  Full  and  free  V     '  Full  and  free.'     '  I  can  ask  Made 


NATHALIE.  301 

moiselle  Montolieu  to  marry  mo  V  '  You  can.'  '  And  if  she 
consents,  j-ou  raise  no  objection?'  'None;  wliy  should  I?' 
'  Even  if  she  agrees  to  a  speedy  union,  you  still  consent  ?'  '  I 
still  consent.'  '  You  will  not  urge  youth,  want  of  fortune,  or 
prudential  considerations  V  '  I  shall  urge  nothing.  I  am 
rich  ;  neither  you  nor  your  wife  need  feel  anxious  about  the 
future;  I  give  to  this  marriage  the  freest,  fullest  consent  man 
can  give.'  Upon  my  word.  Petite,  you  look  as  if  you  did  not 
believe  me  ;  but  go  down  to  the  library — I  can  hear  him  there 
still — go  down,  ask  him,  and  see  If  he  denies  one  word  of  it — ■ 
see  if  he  does." 

Nathalie  did  not  reply;  but  shj  dropped  the  lady's  arm, 
and  sank  back  on  her  seat,  mute  and  pale.  Madame  Marceau 
resignedly  applied  her  vinaigrette. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  in  a  melancholy  tone,  "those  things 
never  go  ofi  without  some  emotion  ;  but  pray,  be  collected,  my 
dear  child.     Here  comes  Charles." 

Nathalie  looked  up  slowly.  The  young  man  stood  before 
her,  in  a  grave,  attentive  attitude.  She  looked  from  him  to 
the  pale  countenance  and  sunken  eyes  of  his  mother ;  both 
faces  had  but  one  meaning  ;  they  were  waiting  ;  still  Nathalie 
did  not  speak. 

"  May  I  know  Mademoiselle  Montolieu's  reply  ?"  at  length 
asked  the  young  man. 

She  said  nothing.  She  seemed  to  be  struggling  against 
some  inward  thought ;  to  seek  to  comprehend  some  perplexing 
and  baffling  mystery.  Madame  Marceau  quietly  took  her 
hand,  and  signing  her  son  to  approach,  placed  that  passive 
hand  in  his  ;  but  scarcely  bad  his  hot  and  eager  fingers  closed 
on  it,  than  Nathalie  withdrew  it,  roused  at  once. 

"  This  cannot  be,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Come,  do  not  be  childish,  Petite.  I  consent ;  my  brother 
Armand,  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  consents  ;  he  consents,  I  tell 
you,  be  consents" 

"  And  approves,"  softly  added  Charles. 

"  And  approves,"  eagerly  echoed  his  mother. 

"  Warmly  approves  the  object  of  my  choice,"  continued  the 
young  man,  with  an  impertinent  self-congratulation,  which 
even  at  that  moment  stung  Nathalie. 

"  Of  course,"  gayly  replied  Madame  Marceau  ;  "  do  you  re- 
member what  he  said  when  he  came  home  after  so  many  years? 
Charles,  marry  whom  you  like,  but  for  heaven's  sake  give  mfl 
a  pretty  niece." 


S02  NATHALIE. 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  slowly  replied  her  son.  looking  at 
Nathalie  as  he  spoke. 

"  And  where  could  even  he,  so  hard,  so  difficult  to  please, 
Qnd  a  more  charming  niece?"  said  Madame  Marceau,  in  a 
caressing  tone. 

Every  hue  from  the  deepest  crimson  to  the  palest  white 
passed  over  Nathalie's  cheek,  as  Madame  Marceau  spoke  thus, 
in  a  slow  measured  tone,  that  let  word  by  word  fall  on  the  ear. 
She  rose,  and  said  briefly.  "  Let  those  who  like,  give  their 
consent:  I  withhold  mine." 

Madame  Marceau  was  going  to  speak ;  her  son  checked  her 
with  a  look. 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  has  decided  too  hastily,"  he  said, 
in  a  peculiar  tone  ;  "  she  must  be  allowed  time  to  reflect." 

He  left  the  room.  There  was  a  long  silence.  Nathalie 
had  not  moved ;  she  stood  in  the  same  spot,  her  look  fastened 
on  the  floor,  her  hands  clasped  together.  Madame  Marceau 
eyed  her  very  attentively. 

"  Petite,"  she  at  length  said  in  her  kindest  tones,  "  come 
and  sit  here  by  me  ;  let  us  understand  each  other." 

"  Madame,"  replied  Nathalie,  without  looking  up,  "  there  is 
nothing  to  understand.  What  I  have  said  is  said ;  expla- 
nations are  useless." 

"  Then  you  refuse  to  come  and  sit  here." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  looked  troubled. 

'•  Will  you,  or  will  you  not  ?"  asked  the  lady.  "  I  shall 
know  how  to  interpret  the  refusal." 

Nathalie  complied  silently,  she  resumed  her  seat ;  her  look 
ras  averted  from  that  of  Madame  Marceau.  But  the  lady 
raised  herself  up,  entwining  one  arm  around  the  young  girl's 
neck,  and  placing  the  other  hand  on  her  shoulder,  compelled 
her  to  look  round,  so  that  their  eyes  met. 

"  So,"  said  she,  patting  her  playfully  on  the  neck, — "  so, 
Petite,  for  we  two  are  going  to  have  a  friendly  chat." 

Nathalie  instinctively  endeavored  to  draw  back,  but  the 
arm  which  held  her,  held  her  firmly. 

"  No,  Petite,"  continued  Madame  Marceau,  shaking  her 
head  with  a  smile,  "  not  yet !  Why  our  friendly  causerie  is 
not  yet  begun  !  So  you  will  not  have  ray  poor  boy  ;  you  must 
have  some  reason." 

"  No.  madame,  none,"  was  the  quick  reply. 

"  No  reason  !   Look  at  what  I  have  already  gained  !" 

"  I  mean  no  particular  reason." 


NATHALIE.  303 

"  Therefore  a  general  cue  ?"  No  reply.  "  The  general 
reason  is,  after  all,  I  suspect  a  particular  one  ;  you  will  not  tell, 
but  I  am  resolved  to  know.     I  must  guess." 

Nathalie  endeavored  to  rise,  to  disengage  herself  from 
Madame  Marceau,  but  the  sick  lady's  grasp,  though  light,  was 
firm  as  steel.     She  held  Nathalie  literally  fastened  to  her  chair. 

"  You  foolish  child,"  said  she  with  a  soft  low  laugh  ;  "  your 
confidante  I  must  and  will  be.     Only  tell  me  if  I  guess  well. 

Your  reason  is "    she    paused   and    smiled   as   Nathalie's 

color  faded  away  before  her  look — "  pride,"  she  added  quietly, 
whilst  the  young  girl  breathed  freely. 

"  You  see,"  calmly  resumed  Madame  Marceau,  '-you  might 
as  well  have  confided  in  me  at  once.  I  am  not  blind.  Women 
may  deceive  men,  but  never  one  another.  No  woman  can 
keep  a  secret  from  another  woman.  There  is  a  freemasonry 
between  us  all,  is  there  not.  Petite  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so,  madame,"  was  the  faint  reply. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Besides,  is  not  observation  the  mother 
of  discovery  %  Then  know,  that  having  observed  much  since 
my  return  from  Paris,  I  have  discovered  a  great  deal.  Amongst 
other  things,  that  you  are  too  proud  to  enter  a  family  in  which 
you  imagine  you  are  received  only  in  compliance  with  the 
wishes  of  an  impassioned  young  man.  Now,  Petite,  I  might 
prove  to  you  that  this  is  a  mistake,  that  we  desired,  and  long 
ago  approved  unconditionally,  what  has  been  mentioned  to- 
day ;  but  as  you  object  to  explanation,  and  as  I  have  ascer- 
tained your  '  reason  ;'  why  let  the  matter  rest  " 

She  released  her  as  she  spoke  ;  but  Nathalie,  though  free, 
did  not  move  now.  / 

"  Who  desired,  who  apprbved  long  ago  ?"  she  asked  with  a 
fixed  look. 

"  We  did.  Petite." 

"  Madame,  whom  do  you  mean  by  we  ?" 

"  The  uncle  and  mother  of  Charles,  of  course." 

"  You  said,  '  this  evening,'  awhile  back ;  you  said  '  this 
svening'  !" 

"  Yes,  it  was  this  evening  Charles  asked  his  uncle's  con 
eent.     But  loe  had  spoken  of  this  often  before." 

Nathalie  rose  and  paced  the  room  up  and  down  ;  then  sud 
denly  coming  back  to  the  lady's  chair,  she  feverishly  asked  : 

'•  Was  it  this  he  meant,  when  he  asked  me  the  other  day,  to 
like  Sainville  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  it  was,"  composedly  replied  Madame  Marceau, 


304  NATHALIE. 

"  Was  it  tliis  he  meant,  when  ho  said  this  evening :  remain 
my  child,  remain  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  it  was." 

"  But  why  not  speak  more  clearly  ?" 

Madame  Marceau  smiled. 

"  Armand  was  always  mysterious.  It  is  one  of  his  weak- 
nesses to  think  no  one  can  read  him.  But  in  all  this  he  has 
not  acted  like  a  wary  man  of  business ;  he  has  trifled  and  de- 
layed ;  and  I,  ignorant  woman  as  I  am,  know  this  is  not  wise. 
The  truth  is,  often  as  we  have  talked  the  matter  over  and 
settled  every  thing " 

"  Settled  every  thing ;  settled  !"  interrupted  Nathalie,  in 
a  broken  tone;  "  I  have  been  strangely  used  !  Am  I  not  flesh 
and  blood  ?  Have  I  no  feeling,  no  heart,  that  I  am  thus  dis- 
posed of?" 

She  was  very  pale,  and  trembled  from  head  to  foot ;  her 
eyes  flashed  indignantly,  her  blanched  lips  quivered. 

"Does  it  make  you  indignant,  that  I  should  seek  in.you  a 
daughter,  and  my  brother  a  niece  ?" 

"  A  niece  !  You  may  tell  your  brother,  madame,  that  I  de- 
cline the  honor ;  or  rather  I  shall  tell  him  so  myself" 

"  Oh  !  you  will !"  cried  Madame  Marceau  with  a  withering 
look  ;  "  you  need  not.  Petite.  He  knows  it ;  he  let  me  see  he 
knew  you  would  refuse  ;  he  let  me  see  he  knew  your  motives 
too." 

"What  if  he  did?"  said  Nathalie,  turning  round  ;  "what 
if  he  did  :  it  is  for  you  and  your  son  to  care — not  for  me  !" 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  it  is  for  me  and  my  son  to 
care  ?"  asked  Madame  Marceau,  turning  very  pale  and  speak- 
ing very  low. 

"  What  I  say." 

"  You  confess  it !  you  dare  to  confess  it !"  cried  she,  rising 
and  crimsoning  with  sudden  passion,  "  and  you  taunt  me  with 
it  too  !  Shameless  girl !"  She  trembled  with  resentment. 
"  Well,  why  not  go  on  ?"  she  added,  in  a  quick  broken  tone. 
"  Tell  me  all — I  can  bear  it — I  understand  the  wisdom  of 
waiting  now — before  or  after  the  funeral — Eh  !" 

Nathalie  stepped  back ;  she  thought  her  delirious.  But 
Madame  Marceau  followed  her  and  grasped  her  arm  firmly. 

"  How  dare  you,"  she  exclaimed  again,  "  how  dare  you 
confess  such  a  thing  ?  Other  women  shrink  and  blush — and 
yoti  ....  go !" 

She  dropped  her  arm  as  a  thing  she  had   held   coo   long 


IVATHALIE.  303 

Nathalie  turned  white  and  red  alternately,  and  looked  as  if  she 
would  sink  into  the  earth  ;  but  making  an  effort,  she  said : 
'•  What  do  you  mean?  I  told  your  brother  six  months  ago, 
that  I  never  could  love  your  son — no  more  !  What  did  he  say 
to  you  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

Madame  Marceau  eyed  her  fixedly;  as  she  looked,  a 
change  came  over  her  features.  She  turned  away,  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  room  with  a  steady  step — a  thing  she  had  not 
done  for  weeks — but  fever  made  her  strong.  She  gave  the 
young  girl  one  or  two  quick  guarded  glances,  but  she  did  not 
reply.     Nathalie  walked  up  to  her. 

"  What  did  he  say, — what  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

'•  Nothing — I  have  been  hasty — cruel ;  but  I  was  excited  ; 
I  am  excitable  to-night.  He  told  me — let  me  see — Yes,  that 
you  could  not  like  Charles — that  was  it — no  more ;  do  not 
imagine  he  said  more.  There,  be  content — it  is  late  ;  good 
night." 

She  turned  away ;  but  Nathalie  followed  her  and  caught 
hold  of  her  garment. 

''  Madame,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

'•  Mean  ! — nothing  !" 

"What  did  he  say?" 

Madame  Marceau  looked  very  grave. 

"  My  brother,"  she  said,  "  is  a  grave  man,  little  accustomed 
to  women  or  young  girls.  I  have  noticed  how  embarrassed  he 
often  felt  in  the  proper  regulation  of  his  behavior  towards 
you ;  but,  touchy  as  you  are,  you  have  no  reason  to  complain 
of  the  host,  of  the  man  of  the  world, — above  all,  of  the  man  of 
honor." 

"  I  do  not  complain,  I  ask  a  question." 

"  And  look  dreadfully  suspicious  too  ?  Do  you  imagine  we 
had  no  other  subjects  of  conversation  than  you  or  your  motives 
for  refusing  Charles  ?  Do  not  imagine  he  said  any  thing  parti- 
cular ?     I  tell  you  he  is  a  man  of  honor." 

"  And  why  do  you  tell  me  that  ?" 

"  Because  you  might  imagine " 

"  Imaa;ine  what  V 


"  Nothing — I  feel  very  fatigued.     Good  night.'' 

She  kissed  her  ;  but  Nathalie  did  not  move. 

"  Imagine  what  ?"  she  repeated. 

•'  You  foolish  child  !     I  tell  you  he  told  me  nothing." 

«  Told  you  nothing— what  had  he  to  tell  ?" 

"  Be  satisfied,  I  tell  you  ;  he  is  a  man  of  strict  honor.*' 


30(i  NATHALIE. 

"  Who  doubts  it  ?    I  do  uot ;  I  will  not  doubt  it,"  passioD 
ately  cried  Nathalie. 

"  I  hope  not,  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  very  seriously  re* 
plied  Madame  Mareeaii,  resuming  her  seat  as  she  spoke.  "  It 
is  going  on  to  two.  Does  it  not  strike  you  it  is  time  this 
should  cease  ?  Good  night.  My  nerves  have  been  tried  long 
enough.  I  must  say  1  think  it  was  unkind  of  Armand  to 
leave  this  to  me,  in  order  to  spare  his  own  feelings.  Very  un- 
kind. But  the  truth  is,  he  did  not  know,  I  believe,  how  to 
break  the  tidings  to  you,  and  he  certainly  has  a  great  horror 
of  scenes,  and  woman's  tears." 

"  Madame,"  said  Nathalie,  pressing  her  hand  to  her  brow, 
as  if  to  compel  thought  to  remain  calm,  "  it  is  clear  he  has 
spoken  more  freely  than  you  confess.     What  is  it  ?" 

"  You  urge  me  to  a  breach  of  confidence." 

"  I  ask  to  know  what  I  have  a  right  to  know" 

"  A  right — then  I  will  not  utter  a  word." 

"  If  you  will  not  tell  me,  he  shall." 

She  made  a  step  forward. 

"  Stay !"  cried  Madame  Marceau,  with  sudden  alarm. 
"  Stay  !  are  you  mad  1  Will  nothing  cool  your  hot  southern 
blood?" 

"  Speak,"  cried  Nathalie,  turning  round  upon  her;  "speak, 
and  do  nirt  torture  me  any  longer." 

"  Torture  you  !  You  certainly  use  strange  and  picturesque 
expressions?  Am  I  an  inquisitor?  Is  it  uot  to  spare  your 
feelings  that  I  do  not  speak ;  that  I  do  not  wish  you  to  see 
Armand  ?  It  is  a  delicate  thing  for  him,  for  any  man,  to  read 
the  feelings  of  a  young  girl,  and  tell  her  with  his  own  lips 
what  he  has  read.  I  know  I  have  said  too  much,  but  if  you 
will  promise  to  be  calm  and  patient " 

"  I  will,  I  will,"  replied  Nathalie,  in  a  subdued  tone  ;  "  1 
will ;  but  speak,  for  heaven's  sake  speak."  She  resumea  her 
Beat,  and  spoke  as  if  to  wait  even  one  second  were  utterly  in- 
tolerable. 

Madame  Marceau  eyed  hrr  compassionately,  and  said  with 
evident  hesitation : 

"  Poor  little  thing  !  Nothing  so  peculiar  was  said.  There 
were  only  vague  hints  about  the  odd  fancies  of  young  girls,— 
fancies  on  which  it  was  good  to  close  one's  eyes, — nay,  even  to 
indulge." 

"  He  said  this  !"  ejaculated  Nathalie,  pressing  her  hand  to 
her  brow. 


NATHALIE.  307 

"  Hinted,  Petite  !  hinted.  Indeed  he  spoke  most  kindly, 
most  compassionately.  '  Time,'  he  asserted,  '  must  be  left  tc 
do  its  own  work.'  I  saw  he  was  pained,  for  your  sake,  at  any 
little  weaknesses  he  might  have  detected." 

"  Weaknesses, — my  weaknesses  !"  exclaimed  Nathalie.  '•  It 
is  false !  I  have  not  been  forward,  or  unwomanly  ?  It  is 
false." 

"  Petite,  you  are  growing  very  unreasonable.  He  said,  em- 
phatically, that  your  weaknesses  were  essentially  womanly." 

Nathalie  did  not  heed  her.  She  had  risen  from  her  seat, 
and  was  agitatedly  pacing  the  room  up  and  down,  pressing 
both  her  hands  to  her  bosom,  as  if  to  stay  its  tumultuous 
throbbmgs.  Her  brow  was  contracted,  her  look  fixed,  her 
breath  came  fast  through  her  pale  and  parted  lips. 

"  God  help  me  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low  tone  ;  "  God  help 
me  !" 

"  Petite,  you  are  getting  excited.  Must  I  tell  you  again, 
that  Armand  is  the  soul  of  delicacy  and  honor." 

"  Honor  !"  echoed  Nathalie  ;  "  God  save  me  from  man,  and 
the  false  thing  called  man's  honor." 

She  stopped  short  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  with  upraised 
look  and  clasped  hands  ;  whilst  tears — not  of  those  which  re- 
lieve, but  of  those  which  are  wrung  from  the  heart's  bitterest 
agony — slowly  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

Madame  Marceau  watched  her  with  sufficiont  calmness  ; 
yet  she  looked  faint  and  pale,  and  repeatedly  used  her  vin- 
aigrette. 

"Petite,"  she  said,  "do  not  afflict  yourself ;  I  see  Armand 
was  greatly  mistaken.  But  you  can.  prove  it  to  him  ;  not  by 
saying  so, — delicacy  forbids  it, — but  by  quietly  agreeing  to 
marry  Charles.     Shall  I  call  him? — Yes." 

She  raised  her  voice  ;  the  door  opened ;  her  son  entered, 
and  came  up  to  Nathalie.  She  did  not  allow  either  to  speak, 
but  said,  quickly : 

"  Charles,  the  poor  child  is  still  much  agitated ;  but  you 
may  trust  to  me.  It  is  all  right.  Petite,  calm  yourself  It 
is  a  trying  moment ;  but  such  things  must  be.  With  all  your 
heedlessness,  you  have  much  penetration  and  good  sense.  Ap- 
ply both  to  the  present  case.  You  need  it.  Ah !  Petite, 
when  you  have  my  experience,  my  knowledge  of  life ;  when 
you  have  reflected  on  human  nature,  and  looked,  considered, 
and  compared " 

Charles  frowned,  and  gave  bis  mother  a  keen  look ;  Nathalie, 


308  NATHALIE. 

awakening  as  from  a  dream,  eyed  Madame  Marceau  witli  a 
perplexed  air,  as  she  continued,  with  unmoved  composure  and 
undiminished  fluenc}'  of  speech  : 

'•  Yes,  when  you  have  reflected  on  human  nature,  looked, 
considered,  and  compared,  you  must  come  to  the  same  painful 
conclusions  at  which  I  have,  alas  !  arrived  But  do  not  fear  ; 
my  afl'ection,  my  experience,  shall  watch  over  you ; — and  now 
it  is  really  late.     Good  ni.cht,  Petite  ;  good  night." 

Nathalie  did  not  answer.  Madame  Marceau's  speech  had 
given  the  fever  of  heart  and  brain  time  to  cool.  Diverted  for 
a  moment,  thought  had  returned,  but  not  alone ;  for  with  it 
came  doubt,  suspicion,  and  tardy  penitence.  All  the  time 
Madame  Marceau  spoke,  she  had  eyed  her  keenly,  but  without 
seeking  to  fathom  the  meaning  of  her  discourse.  She  was  read- 
ing the  lines  of  her  brow,  the  restless  look  of  her  eyes,  the  un- 
steady motion  of  her  lips  ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice  rose 
in  her  soul,  and  cried  out,  "  She  is  false  !   she  is  false  !" 

"  Good  night,  Petite,"  repeated  Madame  Marceau. 

"  Stay,"  said  her  son,  "  can  I  know " 

'■  You  shall  not  torment  her,"  hastily  interrupted  bin 
mother. 

"  I  am  grieved "  began  Nathalie. 

'•  There  !  you  have  grieved  her  !"  indignantly  said-  the 
lady. 

"  Maddme,  I  do  not  complain,"  resumed  Nathalie. 

"  You  are  an  angel !  But  I  am  not  going  to  see  your  feel- 
ings tried  and  wounded.     Good  night !" 

"  Do  you,  or  do  you  not  consent  ?"  asked  Charles,  impa- 
tiently addressing  the  young  girl. 

His  mother  vainly  strove  to  interfere. 

"  No,  sir,"  had  fallen  from  Nathalie's  lips. 

"  No !"  echoed  Charles  ;  and  an  angry  light  passed  ovei 
his  dark  features. 

"  Quite  right,"  said  his  mother ;  "  I  admire  your  strong 
sense  of  feminine  dignity.  Petite.  I  had  told  you,  sir.  it  was 
all  right." 

"  Madame,"  interrupted  Nathalie,  with  much  decision,  "  I 
beg  to  state  I  have  never  given  any  thing  like  consent." 

"  You  have  not !" 

"  No,  madam  ;  I  have  not." 

"  Petite,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  bitter  smile  ;  "  I  see  Armand 
was  right  ;  that  I  was  mistaken  ;  that  the  freemasonry  of 
women  is  nonsense  after  all." 


INATHALIE.  309 

The  stiug  went  home,  but  pierced  deeper  ilian  Madame 
Marceau  thought. 

"  You  mistake,  madame,"  replied  Nathalie,  in  a  low  tone  : 
"one  woman  cannot  deceive  another  woman." 

"Explain  yourself!"  said  Madame  Marceau,  with  impera- 
tive calmness, — the  calmness  of  suppressed  passion. 

Nathalie  did  not  reply. 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  rosumed  the  lady,  laying  some 
stress  on  the  plebeian  name,  "  you  are  not  sufficiently  versed  in 
the  science  of  good  breeding  to  know  that  there  is  a  polite  way 
of  expressing  doubt.  I  believe  you  mentioned  something  about 
four  intention  to  leave ; — there  was  something  of  the  kind." 

She  spoke  as  of  occurrences  the  most  remote  ;  applied  her 
^'inaigrette,  and  wrapped  her  shawl  around  her.  It  was  as  if 
bhe  had  brought  the  young  girl  from  Mademoiselle  Dantin's 
only  the  preceding  evening,  so  completely  had  her  old  manner 
returned. 

"  Madame,"  quietly  said  Nathalie,  '•  do  not  think  I  shall 
leave  this  house  without  seeing  and  speaking  to  Monsieur  de 
Sainville." 

The  lady's  composure  vanislied  at  once. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  breed  strife  between  my  brother  and  me  ?' 
she  sharply  asked. 

"  And  what  has  he  to  do  with  this  ?"  no  less  sharply  asked 
her  son.  "  Let  him — let  any  man — dare  to  stand  between  me 
and  the  woman  I  love  !" 

Madame  Marceau  glanced  from  her  son  to  Nathalie.  She 
breathed  hard,  and  clasped  her  hands  firmly  together.  There 
was  something  like  despair  in  the  forced  calmness  of  her  look. 

"  Charles,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "are  you  mad  or  blind? 
Leave  us ;  I  must  reason  with  this  foolish  girl, — leave  us  !" 

"  I  'have  long  enough  been  kept  in  the  dark,"  he  replied, 
without  moving  ;  I  will  know  more.  Why  did  you  write  to 
me  to  come  without  delay, — to  lose  no  time  ?" 

"  Heaven  help  me !"  cried  Madame  Marceau,  with  a  passion 
that  brought  a  j3ush  to  her  very  brow  ;  "  heaven  help  me  ;  be- 
tween you  both  !  .  .  .  .  And  here  he  is  !"  she  added,  as  a  step 
was  heard  on  the  stairs.     "  Do  your  worst.'' 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  entered.  He  gave  a  keen,  rapid 
glance  around  him,  then  came  forward,  and  paused  before  the 
ohair  of  his  sister. 

"  Rosalie,"  said  he,  severely,  "  you  had  given  me  your  word 
that  you  would  not  excite  yourself  to-night ;  you  had  given  ma 


310  NATHALIE 

your  word  that  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  would  not  be  disturbed 
to-night." 

"  And  I  broke  it !"  replied  his  sister,  with  a  look  of  defiance 
"  How  kind,  Armand,  to  remind  me  of  that !  Mademoiselle 
Montolieu,"  she  added,"  turning  towards  her,  "  you  will  not 
leave  without  an  explanation, — you  who  are  so  mortally  offended 
with  my  brother  for  noticing  your  little  peculiarities  of  feeling 


"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?"  sternly  asked  Monsieur  de 
Sainville,  glancing  from  his  sister  to  Nathalie,  who  changed 
color  ;  "  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  mortally  offended  wiih  me  ! 
Why  so  ?  For  noting  her  peculiarities  of  feeling,  too  !  What 
peculiarities'?" 

"  Peculiarities,  indeed  !"  bitterly  echoed  Madame  Marceau  ; 
"  peculiarities  which  I  have  long  noticed — peculiarities  ill  be- 
coming the  maiden  selected  to  become  my  daughter,  and  your 
niece." 

"  The  selection  was  none  of  mine,"  dryly  replied  Monsieur 
de  Sainville,  without  seeming  to  notice  the  sudden  paleness 
and  burning  flush  which,  as  his  sister  spoke,  had  succeeded 
each  other  on  the  young  girl's  cheek. 

"  You  gave  your  consent ;  deny  it  if  you  can — you  gave 
your  consent,  Armand." 

"  I  had  no  earthly  right  to  withhold  it ;  Charles  was  his 
own  master." 

"But  you  did  not  object — no,  not  one  objection  did  you 
raise :  you  know  you  did  not.  Far  from  it ;  you  approved — 
you  found  nothing  to  object  to  in  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  for 
your  niece." 

She  spoke  triumphantly ;  he  did  not  reply  at  once. 

There  was  a  pause.  Charles,  Nathalie.  Madame  Marceau 
— all  three  looked  at  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  and  those  three 
looks  had  but  one  expression — ardent  curiosity  and  expectation. 
He  only  looked  at  his  sister,  with  severe  compassion  in  every 
feature. 

"  Rosalie,"  said  he,  "  you  place  me  in  a  singularly  difficult 
position  ;  yet  such  is  my  faith  in  Mademoiselle  Montolieu's 
candor  and  good  sense,  that  I  do  not  hesitate  to  declare  that, 
bad  I  been  called  upon  to  select  a  wife  for  Charles,  which  I 
have  not,  and  have  never  been,  she  is  the  very  last  person  I 
should  have  chosen  for  him." 

There  was  another  pause,  or  rather  a  dead  silence.  Charles 
Marceau  stepped  one  pace  forward  to  look  at  his  uncle ;  ill- 


NATHALIE.  311 

suppressed  resentment  lit  up  every  dark  feature.  His  mother 
was  mortally  pale  ;  she  applied  her  vinaigrette,  and  looked  aa 
if  she  needed  its  use. 

"  Are  you  offended  ?"  asked  Monsieur  de  Saniville,  address- 
ing Nathalie,  who,  with  her  face  averted  from  him,  and  buried 
in  her  hands,  now  sat  on  a  chair  weeping  silently. 

She  slowly  turned  round,  on  hearing  his  kind  and  low 
voice  ;  raised  her  face,  but  not  her  eyes,  and  answered,  almost 
inaudibly,  "  No,  sir."  And  every  feature  looked  transformed  ; 
and  it  was  as  if  the  halo  of  some  radiant  happiness  had  fallen 
around  her. 

"  Why  nbt  also  favor  us  with  your  motives,  Armand  ?"  ask- 
ed his  sister.^  with  a  burning  glance. 

"  If  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  desires  it,"  said  he,  very 
coolly,  "  I  shall,  indeed,  be  quite  ready  to  do  so." 

"  No,  no,"  she  quickly  replied,  whilst  a  crimson  hue  passed 
over  her  features ;  '•  I  am  convinced,  sir,  you  meant  nothing 
offensive  :  that  is  enough." 

"  Yes,"  bitterly  said  Madame  Marceau,  "  that  is  enough  ; 
for  I  see  I  have  led  to  a  most  agreeable  explanation  :  but  it  i.« 
not  over  yet — no,  it  is  not  over  yet." 

'•  Rosalie,"  observed  her  brother  with  something  like  kind- 
ness. '■  let  us  drop  the  subject." 

His  sister  did  not  reply  ;  the  hand  which  held  the  vinai- 
grette shook  violent!}'-,  but  her  e3'e  was  unquailing  and  uneon- 
quered ;  resolve,  will,  and  defiance  were  in  her  mien. 

"  I  will  not  let  it  drop,"  said  she,  in  a  broken  and  husky 
tone  :  "  I  will  not.  "VVe  shall  see  if  you  and  she  are  ever  to 
be  in  the  right ;  if  I  am  to  be  to  my  face  accused  of  falsehood 
and  treachery ;  I  will  have  an  explanation — a  clear  explana- 
tion." 

'•  Madame,"  interposed  Nathalie,  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  grant, 
that  I  misunderstood  you." 

"  Then  perhaps  you  will  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what 
extraordinary  construction  you  put  on  my  words  !  I  ask  to  be 
instructed — I  want  to  know.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu ;  will 
you,  then,  I  say,  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what  construction 
you  put  upon  my  words  ?" 

"  I  repeat,  madame.  that  I  misunderstood  you — what  more 
can  I  say?" 

"And  is  it  my  fault  if  you  misunderstood  me?"  feverishly 
exclaimed  the  sick  lady ;  "  did  I  not,  over  and  over  again,  be- 
seech you  to  bo   calm?     Did    I    not   repeatedly    tell  you,  you 


312  NATHALIE. 

were   quite  wrong  ;  that  you,  that  any  woman — that   any  one 
might  trust  to  my  brother's  sense  of  honor  V 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  \ip. 

"  And  what  can  have  been  said  affecting  my  honor  V  he 
imperatively  asked. 

"  No  matter  what,  Armand  ;  enough  to  make  her  doubt  it,'' 
replied  his  sister,  who  had  arrived  at  such  a  state  of  exasper- 
ation, that  she  cared  not  how  deep  she  fell,  provided  she  drag 
ged  down  Nathalie  with  her. 

'•  She  never  doubted  it,"  briefly  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville, 
steadily  eyeing  Nathalie  as  he  spoke.  The  young  girl  shrank 
from  his  glaneo.     "  She  never  doubted  it,"  he  repeated. 

'•No,  of  course  not,"  cried  his  sister,  feeling  that  her  ven- 
geance had  come.  "  no,  of  course  not,  Armand  ;  whilst  I  kept 
remonstrating  with  her,  urging  her  to  reflection,  to  confidence 
in  your  honor,  she  did  not  exclaim,  '  God  save  me  from  the 
false  thing  called  man's  honor  !'  Oh,  no,  it  is  I  misunderstood, 
I  who  invented  it  of  course." 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  did  not  heed  her;  he  was  looking  at 
Nathalie,  who  had  sunk  back  on  her  seat  speechless,  and — 
though  she  bit  her  lip  until  the  blood  came — deadly  pale. 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  rose  and  paced  the  room,  not  agitatedly; 
he  had  never  seemed  more  sedate,  but  yet  as  if  striving  against 
some  inward  emotion,  probably  wrath,  for  his  eyes  had  an 
angry  gleam,  and  his  lips  slight  nervous  twitchings.  He  at 
length  came  and  paused  before  Nathalie  ;  she  trembled  visibly. 
Madame  Marceau  eyed  her  with  a  fiery  look,  Charles  with  a 
lowering  glance. 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  did  you  utter  those  words  ?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  ho  repeated  in  a  deeper  and 
more  thrilling  accent,  '•  did  you  or  did  you  not  utter  those 
words  V 

There  was  something  almost  beseeching  in  his  tone ;  some- 
thing that  pierced  her  heart  with  the  most  exquisite  sorrow. 
She  felt  like  the  the  faithless  disciple  after  he  had  denied  hia 
Divine  Master,  and,  like  him,  turning  her  head  away,  she  wept 
bitterly. 

What  reply  could  have  been  more  eloquent  than  this  si- 
lence. He  stood  there  a  while  longer,  eyeing  her  with  a  stern 
smile,  then  silently  turned  away. 

"  There  was  a  promise  which  you  made  a  few  hours  ago," 
he  resumed  after  a  pause. 


NA'iriAHE.  313 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  replied  in  a  low  tone. 

"  I  release  you  from  it,"  he  calmly  said. 

Nathalie  looked  up  ;  her  very  brow  had  colored  :  her  lips 
trembled  with  indignant  resentment :  but  the  marble  mantel- 
piece against  which  he  now  leaned,  was  not  more  cold  and  un- 
moved than  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 

"  Oh,  mo7i  Dieu  !  how  sorry,  how  very  sorry,  I  am,"  sooth- 
ingly exclaimed  Madame  Marceau.  "  Is  it  possible  that  I  should 
have  done  so  much  mischief?  My  dear  Armand,  let  me  remon- 
strate with  you.  If  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  has  been  too  has- 
ty, yet  pray  remember  that  she  is  still  my  future  daughter. 
your  future  niece." 

"  What !  she  has  consented  !"  he  exclaimed  with  an  invol- 
untary start. 

His  look  was  suddenly  riveted  on  Nathalie.  She  did  not 
shrink  from  it ;  far  from  it ;  she  met  his  eye  steadily  ;  but  the 
glance  that  sought  hers  was  one  that  repelled  scrutiny ;  her 
look  was  deep,  brief,  and  searching,  but  she  felt,  and  felt  truly, 
that  it  was  baffled. 

Nathalie  turned  away  with  a  troubled  look  ;  she  was  evi- 
dently much  agitated,  and  abstractedly  pressed  her  hands  to- 
gether ;  but  suddenly  her  emotion  subsided,  and  her  glance  was 
steady,  her  voice  was  firm,  as  she  addressed  Madame  Marceau. 

"  Madame,"  she  said  with  something  like  dignity,  '•  I  ap- 
preciate the  generosity  of  feeling  which,  in  spite  of  all  that 
has  passed,  induces  you  to  consider  the  relation  you  contem- 
plated between  us  as  unbroken." 

"  Then  after  all  you  consent,"  exclaimed  the  lady,  looking 
more  astonished  than  pleased  at  the  effect  her  generosity  had 
prod  iced. 

'•  I  ask  for  time  to  reflect,"  said  Nathalie  in  a  low  tone. 

"  You  have  had  time  enough,"  imperatively  said  the  lady. 

But  without  heeding  her  speech,  her  son  came  forward  ;  he 
had  remained  apart  silent,  his  eyes  downcast,  his  arms  folded, 
apparently  unmoved,  yet  losing  nothing  of  all  that  passed  from 
the  lowest  word  to  the  most  trifling  gesture ;  pausing  before 
Nathalie,  he  said  in  his  low  voice, — 

"  I  grant  it." 

The  tone  was  courteous,  but  when  Nathalie  looked  up  and 
met  his  eye,  v/hen  she  also  met  the  look  of  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville, she  felt  that  whatever  her  final  answer  might  be.  she  had 
given  the  young  man  a  claim  over  her,  and  taken  one  of  those 
Bteps  that  are  not  retraced  in  the  journey  of  life. 

14 


314  NATHALIE. 

Nor  did  Charles  Marccau  seem  unaware  of  the  ground  hi 
had  won  back.  His  tone,  as  we  have  said,  was  courteous,  his 
attitude  deferential,  yet  through  both  pierced  the  secret  con- 
sciousness that  the  haughty  beauty,  who  had  rejected  him  twice 
within  a  few  hours,  had  now  stepped  down  from  her  pedestal  to 
be  wooed,  won,  and  perchance  slighted  in  her  turn,  like  any 
other  mortal  maiden. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

There  is  something  beautiful  and  touching  in  tie  custom 
prevalent  in  Catholic  countries,  of  leaving  the  churches  open 
from  morning  until  a  late  evening  hour  ;  so  that  all  may  enter 
them  freely  for  devotion  and  prayer. 

No  doubt,  prayer,  as  an  attribute  of  the  spirit,  may  be  ex- 
ercised every  where.  There  is  no  need  of  holy  shrines  or  con- 
secrated walls  to  usher  man  into  the  divine  presence  ;  and  the 
glorious  and  magnificent  works  of  God  call  the  soul  far  more 
eloquently  to  religious  worship  than  all  the  pomp  and  pride 
with  which  man  ever  arrayed  the  perishable  fabric  of  his  tem- 
ples. Yet  the  link  which  binds  us  to  the  house  of  prayer  is 
both  deep  and  holy ;  it  is  felt  in  the  sunny  village  church,  as 
well  as  in  the  solemn  cathedral,  with  legendary  fanes  faintly 
gleaming  through  gathering  gloom.  The  spot  where  human 
beings  have  knelt  in  worship,  where  they  have  poured  forth 
their  souls  in  prayer,  and  yearned  towards  a  purer  existence,  i* 
sanctified  to  man  for  evermore.  We  cannot  behold  unmoved 
the  place  which  has  witnessed  so  much  human  joy,  and,  per- 
chance, also,  so  much  human  sorrow  ;  the  sanctuary  which  i*e- 
mained  ever  open  to  the  weary  pilgrims  of  humanity, — a  si- 
lent and  isolated  refuge  amidst  the  strife  and  turmoil  of  life. 

A  few  days  after  the  incidents  recorded  in  the  last  chapter, 
Rose  Montolieu  left  the  house  of  her  aunt  at  twilight,  and 
turning  round  the  angle  of  the  narrow  court,  entered  the  old 
abbey,  through  a  low  side-door,  which  yielded  to  her  touch, 
swung  noiselessly  on  its  hinges,  and  silently  closed  behind  her. 
The  interior  aspect  of  the  church  was  simple,  and  even  severe. 
The  walls  were  bare,  and  the  whole  of  the  edifice  was  imper- 
fectly lit ;  tall  pillars  sprang  up  to  the  arched  roof,  and  vanished 


NATHALIE.  315 

in  its  deepening  obscurity  ;  the  distant  altar  was  dimly  visible 
at  the  end  of  the  long  nave,  where  only  a  few  poor  women  now 
knelt  in  prayer,  for  this  was  not  the  hour  of  any  religious  sservice. 

Hose  took  her  usual  place,  in  the  sheltering  obscuiity  of  a 
massive  pillar ;  there  she  sat,  her  forehead  buried  in  her  hands, 
not  praying  in  actual  language,  but  yielding  up  her  soul  to 
communion  with  God.  This  was  the  only  mystic  and  imagina- 
tive feature  of  her  piety,  or,  indeed,  of  her  character  ;  both  of 
which,  were  essentially  practical  and  severe.  JSaihalie  loved 
her  sister,  and  respected  her  deeply ;  yet  she  could  not  conceal 
from  herself  that  Rose  was  not  winning,  amiable  or  gentle. 
The  sight  of  her  goodness  strengthened  the  soul,  because  it  was 
from  a  heroic  soul  that  it  sprang ;  it  left  the  heart  unmoved, 
because,  to  say  the  truth,  in  that  goodnesci  the  heart  had  no 
part.  But  what  surprised  Nathalie  stiii  more  was  that  her 
sister,  with  her  fervent  faith  and  deep  piety,  was  j-et  painfully 
skeptical  on  other  subjects.  In  vain  did  she  seek  to  hide  how 
deeply  she  doubted  of  all  that  the  human  heart  most  desires  to 
be  true, — of  virtue,  devotedness,  love,  and  friendship,  and, 
above  all,  of  earthly  happiness, — her  doubt  could  not  be  con- 
cealed ;  its  shadow  always  fell  like  a  sudden  and  death-like 
chill  on  the  light  and  life  of  her  young  sister's  heart. 

Faith  in  heaven  does  not  necessarily  imply  skepticism  in 
human  nature,  or  in  things  of  earth.  We  may  believe  in  the 
divine,  and  not  deny  humanity  ;  we  may,  but  some  minds — and 
Rose  was  of  these — cannot.  Their  religion  springs  from  the 
longing  love  of  the  ideal,  from  the  weariness  of  earth,  from  the 
deep  and  still  unsatisfied  aspirations  towards  excellence.  This 
piety,  though  fervent,  true,  and  zealous,  is  little  liked  or  ap- 
proved. The  world  naturally  prefers  cheerful  piety — that  gentle 
offspring  of  hearts,  happy  by  nature,  or  whom  sorrow  only  chas- 
tens :  wiio,  indeed,  would  not  love  it  1  Rut  can  all  feel  it  equally  ? 
Are  there  not  too  many  to  whom  religion  is  essentially  a 
refuge,  who  cling  to  it  as  shipwrecked  mariners  cling  to  a  last 
plank  of  safety,  who  obey  its  behests,  and  fulfil  its  duties  faith- 
I'ully ;  but  who  fail  in  the  charm  that  renders  either  the  faith 
or  tlie  disciple  attractive, — who  love  little,  and  are  still  less 
loved?  Can  these  be  gay,  happy,  and  free  givers  of  the 
charities  of  life?  Yet  how  harsh,  how  severe,  is  the  world  to 
them  !  It  upbraids  them  with  not  being  that  which  they  could 
not  possibly  be  ;  it  calls  their  faith  cheerless,  gloomy,  and  de- 
sponding ;  and  it  never  asks  itself  how,  unless  through  a  miracle, 
sweet  waters  could  flow  from  the  source  of  an  embittered  heart ! 


B16  NATHALIE. 

Yes,  it  is  true,  their  faith  is  indeed  more  akin  to  despaii 
than  to  hope;  and  this  is  vhy  they  must  believe;  not  to  be- 
lieve would  be  for  them  to  perish  irretrievably.  Through  their 
own  folly,  misfortune,  or  too  clearsightedness,  they  have  lost 
earth :  be  merciful — envy  them  not  heaven. 

Eose  remained  about  an  hour  thus ;  she  then  left  her  seat, 
turned  down  one  of  the  aisles,  and  passed  by  a  retired  chapel 
with  a  solitary  lamp  burning  before  its  silent  shrine.  It  was 
the  chapel  of  the  Virgin,  whose  pale  sepulchral  image  rose 
over  the  altar.  Pure  and  humble,  with  downcast  eyes,  and 
hands  meekly  folded  on  her  bosom,  she  seemed  to  have  just 
heard  the  salutation  of  the  angels,  and  to  be  still  replying : 
■'  Behold  ti,e  handmaiden  of  the  Lord."  White  vases  filled 
with  such  white  flowers  as  the  season  afforded,  were  the  only 
ornaments  of  the  altar  ;  shrubs,  with  blossoms  of  the  same 
chaste  and  virgin  hue,  were  placed  in  a  semicircle  at  its  base ; 
a  low  iron  railing  inclosed  the  shrine.  Near  that  railing  now 
knelt  a  woman,  whose  bowed  head,  clasped  hand,  and  motion 
less  attitude  seemed  to  betoken  earnest  prayer. 

The  lamp  which  burned  before  the  shrine  was,  according  to 
the  general  custom,  suspended  by  a  long  iron  chain  from  the 
lofty  roof:  its  light  fell  almost  entirely  within  the  inclosed 
area,  and  only  one  tremulous  ray  descended  to  the  spot  occu- 
pied by  the  stranger.  Yet  there  was  something  in  her  figure, 
though  shrouded  by  sombre  outward  garments,  that  seemed  fa- 
miliar to  the  eye  of  Rose,  who  involuntarily  lingered  near  the 
spot.  After  awhile  the  stranger  lifted  up  her  head  and  leaned 
back,  though  still  kneeling,  with  her  look  fixed  on  the  altar ; 
her  veil  was  thrown  back,  and  her  countenance  appeared  fully 
revealed. 

It  was,  as  Rose  had  suspected,  Nathalie  ;  ay,  Nathalie,  but 
such  as  she  had  never  yet  seen  her  ;  sad,  wan,  and  broken  down 
by  grief,  with  a  troubled  look  and  eyes  dimmed  by  weeping. 
She  was  deadly  pale,  and  the  tears  which  still  glistened  on  her 
cheek  told,  not  less  than  her  despairing  and  helpless  attitude, 
of  the  vain  struggle  between  the  soul's  prayer  and  the  heart's 
passionate  sorrow. 

Rose  eyed  her  sister  with  deep  sadness,  then  stepped  for- 
ward and  lightly  placed  her  hand  on  Nathalie's  shoulder  The 
young  girl  started,  rose  precipitately  and  drew  her  veil  down ; 
but  she  made  no  resistance  when  her  sister  took  her  arm  within 
her  own  and  led  her  away.  They  left  the  church  by  the  front 
entrance,  and  neither  spoke  until   they  emerged  from  its  sha 


NATHALIE.  i  1  7 

dowy  gloom  iuto  the  moonlit  space  beyond.  Rose  paused  on 
the  first  of  the  wide  flight  of  steps ;  she  was  going  to  speak, — 
Nathalie  checked  her. 

"  I  cannot  stay. — I  am  in  a  great  hurry. — I  cannot." 

They  descended  silently.  At  the  bottom  of  the  steps  ex- 
tended an  open  space  with  a  row  of  trees  on  either  side,  and 
several  wooden  benches  standing  in  the  shade  ;  mothers  brought 
their  children  there  in  the  day-time,  but  the  spot  was  silent 
and  lonely  now.  Rose  arrested  her  sister  as  she  was  hurriedly 
walking  on. 

"  We  will  sit  here  awhile,"  said  she,  pointing  to  one  of  the 
benches. 

"  But  I  cannot,  Rose  ;  I  am  in  a  great  hurry." 

'•  Why  did  you  not  call  itf?" 

"  Madame  Marceau  is  worse,  much  worse  ;  let  me  go." 

"  AVhy  were  you  weeping  in  the  chapel  ?"  persisted  Rose. 

Her  sister  did  not  answer,  but  Rose,  who  still  held  her  arm 
could  feel  her  trembling. 

'•  What  has  happened  ?"  asked  Rose. 

'•  Nothing,"  replied  Nathalie,  avoiding  her  sister's  searching 
glance  ;  "  the  night  air  is  chill.     Let  me  go." 

"  The  air  is  clear  and  mild ;  if  you  object  to  sitting  we  can 
walk  up  and  down ;  but  we  shall  not  part  thus." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Be  it  so,"  at  length  said  Nathalie,  in  a  wholly  altered 
tone ;  •'  yes,  as  well  now  as  later  ;  yes,  we  will  sit  down  and  you 
shall  hear  me." 

They  seated  themselves  on  a  bench  as  she  spoke;  Nathalie 
raised  her  veil,  and  looking  at  her  sister  with  a  pale,  deter- 
mined face,  she  said,  briefly  : 

"  Rose,  first  know  this — namely,  that  my  resolve  is  taken  ; 
that  much  as  I  love  and  respect  you,  not  all  you  can  urge  or 
entreat  shall  prevail  against  my  will." 

'•  And  what  is  that  will?"  asked  Rose,  seeing  that  she  paused. 

"  I  am  going  to  marry." 

Rose  remained  speechless  ;  she  took  both  her  sister's  hands 
in  her  own,  and  eyed  her  attentively ;  their  looks  met,  but  Na- 
thalie's face  remained  unaltered  :  the  pale  brow,  fixed  glance, 
and  compressed  lip,  still  told  the  same  resolute  will  she  had  so 
clearly  expressed,  but  they  told  no  more.  Neither  the  blush 
of  the  willing  bride,  nor  the  trembling  fear  of  the  unwilling 
one,  were  there. 

"  To  marry  whom  ?"  at  length  asked  Rose. 


?.18  NATHALIE. 

"  T!ie  son  of  Madame  Marceau." 

•■'  To  marry  him,  Nathalie  !  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

'•  What  I  say,  Hose." 

'•Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  going  to  marry  the  nephevt 
of  Monsieur  de  Sainville?"  asked  Rose,  slightly  bending 
forward. 

Natlialie  jircssed  her  hand  to  her  brow,  but  she  calmly 
replied : 

"  Yes,  Rose,  I  mean  it." 

There  was  a  pause. 

''Where  is  Monsieur  Marceau?"  (j^uietly  asked  Rose. 

"  At  Sainville." 

"  Has  he  been  long  there  ?" 

"  A  few  days." 

"  And  he  has  asked  you  to  marry  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  Rose,  he  has." 

"  And  you  are  actually  going  to  marry  him?" 

"  I  already  told  you  so." 

"  You  amaze  me.     Marry  him  !" 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Rose,  do  not  be  always  repeating  it." 

"  Does  Madame  Marceau  consent?"  continued  Rose,  with- 
out heeding  this. 

"  Yes,  slie  consents." 

"  And  Monsieur  de  Sainville  !"  said  Rose,  slowly  looking 
up  at  Nathalie. 

"  And  pray  what  has  Monsieur  de  Sainville  to  do  with 
this?"  asked  Nathalie,  biting  her  lip,  but  steadily  meeting  her 
sister's  glance. 

"  Has  Ae  consented?"  calmly  inquired  Rose. 

"  Who  cares  about  his  consent  ?"  angrily  exclaimed  Na- 
thalie ;  "  I  do  not  Rose,  mind — I  do  not." 

"  Then  he  has  refused  !"  quickly  said  Rose. 

Her  sister  smiled  bitterly. 

"  Refused  !  Oh  !  Rose,  you  do  not  know  him.  Why,  this 
i.s  a  matter  that  does  not  concern  him ;  to  refuse  would  be  to 
meddle,  to  interfere  ;  and  he  is  too  wise  to  do  either." 

"  And  you  will  be  his  niece  ?"  resumed  Rose,  in  a  low  tone 

Nathalie  rose  abruptly. 

"  Why  not  ?"  she  feverishly  exclaimed  ;  "  why  not — why 
does  it  surprise  you,  Rose?  What  do  you  mean  by  being  so 
surprised?" 

Rose  did  not  answer  the  question;  but  she  eyed  her  sister 
Bteadily,  as  she  said,  in  her  lowest,  but  most  distinct  tones  : 


NATHALIE.  31.1 

"Do you  love  Monsieur  Marceau?" 

There  was  a  pause. 

••  I  suppose  I  do,"  at  length  replied  Nathalie. 

'•  Speak  plainly  :  do  you  love  hira  V  Her  voice  rose  ;  but 
that  of  Nathalie  sank,  as  she  replied  : 

'•  Why  marry  him,  if  I  did  not  ?" 

They  stood  together  in  the  pale  moonlight;  the  elder  sister 
lending  a  fixed  and  searching  look  on  the  younger  one. 

"  I  ask  you,  Nathalie,  if  you  love  that  man  ?"  repeated  Rosa 
with  increasing  earnestness. 

"Rose,"  answered  Nathalie,  after  a  pause, '-love  is  a  strong 
word.  Do  women  always  marry  for  love — do  they  not  rather 
marr3%  in  order  to  secure  a  position  and  a  home?" 

"  How  worldly  you  have  become  !"  ejaculated  Rose :  '•  a 
position  and  a  home  !  Have  you  made  conditions  for  either  ? 
No — then  what  home,  what  position  will  you  have,  if  Monsieur 
Je  Sainville  marries  V 

"  He  will  not,"  said  Nathalie,  abruptly  looking  up. 

"  How  do  you  know?" 

"  His  sister  told  me  so,"  slowly  replied  the  young  girl. 

"  Is  she  your  only  authority  ?" 

'•  He  will  not  marry,  Rose.  He  had,  years  ago,  a  disap- 
pointment— no  matter  what — he  will  not  marry." 

'•A  disappointment  years  ago!"  echoed  Rose;  '-what  of 
that !  Are  you  such  a  child,  as  to  think  that  would  influence 
him  still?  What  is  a  first  love?  a  breath,  a  dream;  if  it  is 
thus  even  for  women,  what  is  it  for  men  ? 

"  He  love  again  !    Impossible,  Rose  he  is  a  stone." 

'■  I  did  not  speak  of  love  ;  it  is  not  likely  a  man  of  his  age 
would  yield  to  that  childish  passion :  men  seldom  marry  for 
love  after  twenty-five — they  cease  to  care,  and  believe  in  it,  and 
yet  they  marry." 

"  Why,  then,  did  he  not  marr}'  ?"  asked  Nathalie. 

"  Probably  because  be  was  devoted  to  a  task  which  fore- 
bade  him  thinking  of  marriage.  That  task  is  over  now ;  do 
you  imagine  he  is  going  to  devote  himself  to  a  cheerless  and 
solitary  life  ?  His  sister  may  do  all  she  can  to  have  it  so  ;  but 
if  she  fails — if  he  does  marry,  what  position  will  you  hold  in 
Sainville,  as  his  niece,  or  rather  as  the  wife  of  a  nephew,  no 
longer  his  heir  !" 

"  Rose,  you  are  pitiless,"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  in  a  broken 
tone  ;  '•  he  married,  and  I  residing  at  Sainville  as  the  wife  0/ 
)ds  nephew  !     Oh  !    you  are  pitiless  !" 


320  NATHALIE. 

"  If  you  loved  your  future  lausband,"  inflexibly  aaid  Rosftj 
"  the  prospect  of  a  lost  inheritance  would  not  move  you  so." 

'•  Love  i  and  why  on  earth  should  I  love  ?"  bitterly  ex- 
claimed Nathalie.  "  Men  do  not  love,  you  say, — and  I  believe 
it ;  why  then  should  women  ?  To  consume  their  heart  in  de- 
desires  for  ever  unfulfilled.  Oh  !  Rose,  you  have  too  often 
warned  me  against  this  folly." 

Rose  laid  her  hand  on  her  sister's  arm. 

"  I  will  tell  you  why  a  woman  should  love  her  husband," 
she  said  calmly,  •'  it  is  lest  she  should  love  another  man.  You 
think  me  cold  and  severe  ;  perhaps  I  am  so;  the  sorrows  of  a 
love-sick  girl  [  might  not  pity  much  ;  I  know  how  quickly  they 
pass  away.  But,  oh  !  Nathalie,  I  could  pity,  deeply  pity,  the 
woman  striving  against  a  guilty  passion.  Alas  !  how  easily 
does  the  love  that  is  permitted  yield  to  weariness  and  time,  but 
how  fatal  and  enduring  is  the  love  that  is  forbidden  ;  a  fire  ever 
hid,  yet  ever  burning  in  the  heart.  But  you  say.  perhaps,  '  I 
will  not  love  thus.'  Do  not  deceive  yourself;  you  are  not  cold 
or  calm  ;  mere  domesticity  will  not  charm  you  ;  if  you  do  not 
love  your  husband,  you  will  love  some  other." 

"  I  will  not,"  angrily  cried  Nathalie  ;  "  I  will  not ;  you  in- 
sult me.  Rose." 

"  T  never  said  you  would  yield  to  your  feelings,  and  sin ;  but 
do  not  mistake  human  freedom  ;  our  actions  alone  are  ours,  not, 
alas !  our  passions  and  our  desires.  Will  can  conquer  love  or 
hate ;  but  it  cannot  annihilate  them  ;  either  may  perish,  but 
not  through  us,  Nathalie  ;  not  through  us.  Oh  !  they  are  re- 
lentless enemies,  with  whom  there  is  no  truce  and  no  peace  ; 
who  feed  on  the  inward  strife  they  themselves  create.  Brethren 
they  will  not  be  ;  nothing  can  they  be  save  pitiless  tyrants  or 
rebellious  slaves.  And  have  you  ever  imagined  what  it  is  to 
belong  to  one  man  and  to  love  another?  to  strive  daily,  hourly, 
against  a  passion  that  might  have  been  perfectly  innocent,  but 
which  one  fatal  error  in  your  life  has  rendered  for  ever  guilty? 
I  grant  that  you  subdue  that  passion  ;  do  you  know  at  what 
cost  the  bitter  victory  is  won  ?  Do  you  know  what  sort  of  a 
feeling  it  is  to  subdue  one's  own  heart,  and  feel  its  life-stringa 
breaking?  You  have  heard  of  martyrs  !  know  that  there  are 
martyrs  of  the  soul,  whose  agony  the  eye  of  God  has  alone 
beheld.  Have  you  the  faith,  the  fervor,  the  strength  to  endure 
that  martyrdom  ?  Oh  !  Nathalie,  that  struggle  has  unfathomed 
depths  of  bitterness,  and  you  will  have  to  drink  of  those  bit- 
ter waters  to  the  very  dregs ;  your  fate  is  before  you;  choose !' 


NATHALIE.  32i 

"  I  will  marry  liira  !"  said  Nathalie,  in  a  low  and  resoluta 
tone  ;  and  she  looked  ujd,  and  met  her  sister's  glance  unshrink* 

ingly- 

"  You  will  marry  him  ?"  sorrowfully  echoed  Rose. 

"  Rose,"  calmly  replied  her  sister,  "  you  have  said  many 
true  things,  but  omitted  others  quite  as  true.  Passions  btrira 
not  only  against  us,  but  amongst  themselves ;  strong  are  lovo 
and  hate,  but  pride  is  mightier  far ;  she  can  conquer  both,  and 
lay  them, — struggling  and  rebellious  if  you  will, — but  subdued, 
nay,  prostrate,  beneath  her  feet.  Think  of  that,  and  fear  not 
for  me." 

She  spoke  with  subdued  energy,  but  with  the  energy  of 
will,  not  that  of  emotion  ;  no  flush  rose  to  her  brow,  no  light 
kindled  in  her  eyes,  the  very  tones  of  her  voice  were  equal 
and  low,  as  she  stood  there,  calm  and  pale  in  the  moonlight, — 
it  was  as  if  some  icy  spell  had  fallen  on  that  once  fiery  and 
vehement  nature. 

"  I  will  pray  for  you,"  said  Rose,  who  saw  that,  for  the 
present,  at  least,  remonstrance  was  wholly  useless. 

And  thus  they  parted. 

Rose  was  in  the  room  of  her  aunt  on  the  following  morning, 
when  Desiree  opened  the  door,  and  said  briefly : 

"  Your  sister  is  below  ;  she  wants  to  speak  to  you." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  your  sister  wants  with  you  at 
this  hour?"  peevishly  asked  Madame  Lavigne,  with  whom, 
since  she  had  ceased  to  be  merry,  Nathalie  had  suddenly  fallen 
into  disgrace.  "  You  shall  certainly  not  go  until  I  am  settled  ; 
it  is  very  selfish  of  your  sister  to  call  at  this  hour." 

It  was  a  full  half  hour  before  she  would  allow  Rose  to 
depart ;  now  she  wanted  a  cushion, — now  she  wished  for  the 
table  to  be  drawn  towards  her, — now  there  was  an  order  to  be 
given  to  Desiree ;  but  at  length  she  could  find  no  further 
excuse  for  detaining  her,  and,  not  without  a  sharp  recommen- 
dation not  to  be  long  away,  she  permitted  her  niece  to  go 
down. 

As  Rose  paused  near  the  door  previous  to  opening  it,  she 
heard  the  sound  of  a  hurried  step  within,  pacing  the  room  up 
and  down  ;  then  there  was  a  pause  ;  her  sister  had  stopped 
short,  no  doubt  to  listen.  She  opened :  Nathalie  was  standing 
in  the  centre  of  the  room  with  her  eyes  fastened  on  the  door. 

"Thank  God!  you  are  come,"  she  quickly  said  "Ohl 
Rose,  how  could  you  keep  me  waiting  so  long?" 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  asked  Rose. 
14* 


322  NATHALIK. 

"  Nothing,  Rose.  Why  do  you  always  think  something 
has  been  happening?" 

"  But  you  have  not  come  without  a  purpose." 

"  No,  Rose  ;  the  truth  is,"  she  hesitatingly  added,  "  I  am 
not  very  well.     Could  I  stay  here — with  you — for  a  few  days  ?" 

Rose  looked  at  her  with  sorrowful  seriousness. 

"  You  are  not  well,  Nathalie  ;  but  it  is  your  soul,  not  your 
body,  that  is  ailing.  Oh  !  child,  you  know  not  how  to  tel! 
untruths,  and  this  one  is  too  absurd.  What  change  has  come 
since  last  night  ?     Why  do  you  wish  to  be  here  ?" 

"  Because,  God  help  me  !  there  is  no  other  home  for  me," 
exclaimed  Nathalie,  in  a  despairing  tone,  that  went  to  tha 
heart  of  her  sister  ;  but  she  said  quietly : 

"  And  Sainville  !" 

"  Sainville  !"  echoed  Nathalie,  "  ay,  it  has  been  my  home. — 
would  it  never  had  !  Oh  !  fatal,  very  fatal,  has  been  to  me  the 
hospitality  of  that  house  !" 

And  again  she  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  not  weeping, 
but  wringing  her  hands.  The  composure  she  had  maintained 
on  the  preceding  evening  had  now  wholly  vanished. 

"  What,  then,  becomes  of  your  marriage  with  Charles 
Marceau  V  asked  Rose,  eyeing  her  fixedly. 

Nathalie  suddenly  stood  still. 

"  If  there  is  love  or  mercy  in  your  soul,"  she  passionately 
cried,  "  never  speak  of  that  marriage. — never  couple  that  name 
with  mine." 

"  Have  you  quarrelled  with  him  ?"  inquired  Rose. 

"  Quarrelled  !  and  with  him  ?  No,"  almost  disdainfully 
replied  Nathalie. 

"  Then  it  is  something  between  you  and  his  mother  ?" 
persisted  Rose. 

Her  sister  shook  her  head  with  impatient  denial. 

"  Or  with  Monsieur  de  Sainville?"  continued  Rose. 

Nathalie  turned  round,  as  if  something  had  stung  her. 

'•  It  is  not,"  she  cried,  angrily ;  "  it  is  not.  With  him ! 
Why,  what  has  he  to  do  with  all  this  ?  -Why  do  you  always, — 
why  does  every  one  always  taunt  me  with  his  name  ?  I  cannot 
understand  it ;  I  do  not  know  what  is  meant  by  it ;  I  will  not 
s,lIow  it.  Rose." 

Her  dark  eyes  lit,  and  her  lips  trembled,  as  she  spoke. 

"■  You  have  given  me  no  answer,"  she  added,  after  a  pause ; 
"  (•'■an  I,  or  can  I  not,  stay  here  ?     It  will  not  be  for  long." 

"  Ynu  can  stay,"  replied  Rose. 


NATHALIE.  323 

"  And  what  will  your  aunt  say?" 

"  I  cannot  tell.     She  will  be  vexed, — exasperated,  perhaps." 

"  Then  1  will  not  come  here,  to  be  the  source  of  trouble  to 
fou,"  sadly  said  Nathalie. 

"  But  you  shall  come  and  stay,''  persisted  her  sister. 
'  Have  I  no  right  in  the  house,  where  my  youth  has  been 
spent  and  wasted  for  so  many  years  ?    You  shall  stay,  Nathalie." 

The  young  girl  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely ;  but  as  she 
sat  down,  and  looked  around  her,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  There  was  a  time,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "  when  I  pitiecl 
you.  Rose,  for  being  buried  in  this  living  tomb ;  for  then  1 
rejoiced  in  the  life  and  light  of  another  dwelling:  but  now  I 
am  glad  to  come  and  share  with  you,  in  the  shadow  and  gloom 
of  this  place  ;  and  it  almost  seems  as  if  either  could  not  be  too 
heavy  or  too  dark  for  me." 

'•  That  it  is  all  over  between  you  and  Charles  Marceau,  I 
can  see,"  said  Rose,  walking  up  to  her  sister,  and  laying  her 
hand  on  her  shoulder ;  '•  yet  you  say  that  you  have  not  quar- 
relled.    How  is  this  ?" 

The  head  of  Nathalie  drooped  on  her  bosom. 

"  How  cau  I  tell  you!"  she  replied  at  length;  "  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  a  sudden  awakening  ;  and  if  I  have  awakened, 
will  you  reprove  me,  Rose  V 

"  No,  assuredly  ;  but  what  did  he  say  ?" 

"  Of  whom  are  you  speaking  ?"  asked  Nathalie,  evidently 
troubled. 

"  Of  Charles  Marceau,  of  course." 

"  He  said  nothing  ;  because,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  he  knows 
nothing." 

Rose  stepped  back,  in  some  surprise. 

"  Does  he  still  consider  you  as  his  affianced  wife  ?"  she 
uuickly  asked. 

Nathalie  hesitated ;  but  she  at  length  answered : 

«  No." 

'•  But  you  contradict  yourself,  Nathalie." 

"  I  do  not.  Rose.  I  had  asked  for  time  to  reflect ;  he 
granted  it ;  but  though  my  resolve  was  fixed,  my  actual  reply 
was  not  yet  given,  when  we  spoke  together  last  night;  there- 
fore he  knows  nothing." 

"  And  does  any-  one  at  the  chateau  know  that  you  have 
left?" 

"  They  must  know  it  now." 

''  But  you  left  by  stealth,  without  explanation !  Oh  I 
Nathalie." 


S24  NATHALIE. 

"How  did  I  know  I  could  stay  bcre  with  you,  Kosel 
Besides,  I  can  write  now." 

She  rose,  brought  forward  writing  materials,  and  an  old 
mahogany  desk,  wrote  a  few  lines,  and  was  folding  up  her 
letter,  when  Rose  quietly  said  : 

"  Let  me  see  what  you  have  written,  Nathalie." 

The  young  girl  silently  handed  her  the  note. 

"  So,"  said  Rose,  after  glancing  over  it,  "  you  merely  tell 
Madame  Marceau  that  you  are  staying  for  a  few  days  with  me. 
Oh  !  Nathalie,  why  not  say  frankly,  '  I  leave,  because  I  cannot 
marry  your  son.' " 

"  I  shall  tell  her  so  in  a  few  days."  replied  Nathalie,  in  a 
low  tone. 

"  Tell  her  now." 

"  I  will  not,  I  will  not.  Rose,"  replied  Nathalie,  speaking 
calmly,  but  with  a  sudden  change  of  look  and  tone  that  re 
minded  her  sister  of  the  preceding  evening. 

"And  why  so?" 

"  I  will  not,"  again  said  Nathalie. 

Rose  saw  it  would  be  useless  to  remonstrate.  She  tool 
the  letter,  folded  it  up,  and  said,  quietly : 

"  I  shall  take  it." 

Nathalie  looked  confounded — almost  alarmed. 

"  Do  not.  Rose,  do  not,"  she  quickly  exclaimed. 

"  I  cannot  send  Desiree,  my  aunt  would  not  allow  it ;  but 
I  can  go  myself,"  very  calmly  replied  Rose,  who  now  looked 
fully  as  determined  as  Nathalie  to  consult  her  own  will. 

No  more  was  said ;  but  as  Rose,  after  going  up  to  her  own 
room,  came  down  again,  and  stood  in  the  dark  passage,  in  the 
act  of  opening  the  street-door,  the  sound  of  a  light  step  behind 
her  made  her  look  round.  It  was  Nathalie  ;  she  was  standing 
at  the  head  of  the  staircase,  with  its  gloom  behind  her,  and 
her  brown  dress  falling  down  to  her  feet :  even  in  that  dull 
light,  which  scarcely  revealed  the  outlines  of  her  figure,  she 
looked  anxious  and  pale. 

"  Rose,"  said  she  in  a  low  tone,  "  do  not  see  Madame  Mar- 
ceau ;  it  is  better  not." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  calmly  said  Rose. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  do  ;  pray  see  no  one." 

'•  Do  not  make  yourself  uneasy,"  quietly  answered  her  sis- 
ter, as  she  went  out  and  closed  the  door. 

An  hour  had  elapsed,  yet  Rose  returned  not;  at  length 
Nathalie,  who  sat  anxiously  by  the  window,  beheld  her  enter- 
ing the  narrow  court.     Her  heart  sank  within  her,  and  in  spite 


NATHALIE.  325 

of  all  her  efTorts  to  look  and  remain  calm,  a  marble  pallor 
overspread  her  features,  as,  after  a  few  minutes,  Kose  entered 
the  room.  Neither  spoke.  Nathalie  silently  looked  up  at  her 
sister,  who  did  not  seem  to  heed  the  glance.  The  face  of  Rose 
wore  its  usual  expression,  and  she  took  up  her  work  and  saJ 
down  in  her  place  in  entire  silence. 

Nathalie  rose,  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  sud- 
denly came  back  to  her  sister,  and  said  in  a  low  breathless 
tone, — 

"Well,  Rose?" 

Rose  looked  up  very  calmly. 

"AVhat  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  tell  me  ?" 

"  Little  or  nothing." 

"  Did  you  see  Madame  Marceau  ?" 

''  Yes,  I  saw  her." 

Nathalie's  countenance  fell. 

"Who  was  with  her?"  she  quickly  asked. 

"  No  one,"  laconically  replied  Rose. 

"  What  did  she  say  ?"  hesitatingly  resumed  Nathalie  after 
a  pause. 

"  She  read  your  letter,  and  uttered  a  few  smooth  unmean- 
ing phrases,  no  more." 

"  And  ihat  was  all?"  said  Nathalie,  seeming  much  relieved. 

"  No,"  gravely  replied  Rose,  "  that  was  not  all.  As  I 
reached  the  gate  her  son  overtook  me ;  he  had  just  left  hia 
mother,  and  seen  your  letter." 

"  Well,  what  did  he  want  ?"  calmly  asked  Nathalie,  as  he? 
sister  paused  and  looked  up  into  her  face. 

"I  will  repeat  his  own  words. — '  Pray  tell  Mademoiselle 
Montolieu,'  said  he  quietly,  '  that  I  am  only  too  happy  to  wait 
for  her  reply,  however  long  it  may  be  deferred.'  " 

"  He  said  that,"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  with  something  like 
scorn. 

"  Yes,  Nathalie,  he  said  that ;  but  do  not  deceive  ytrurself ; 
if  that  man  loved  you  once,  he  does  not  love  you  now." 

Nathalie  gave  her  sister  a  startled  look. 

'•  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  said  in  a  faltering  tone. 

"  That  Monsieur  Marceau  does  not  love  you." 

"  Then  why  show  himself  so  submissive,  so  hum  hie,  Rose?'* 
asked  Nathalie  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  cannot  tell ;  but  soft  as  was  his  tone,  humb'le  as  was  hi* 
speech,  there  was  still  something  sinister  in  his  eye  as  he  spoke 
and  uttered  your  name." 


826  NATHALIE. 

"  But  wlij  should  he  wish  to  marry  me,  if  not  for  lovo  V 
urged  Nathalie,  who  was  very  pale,  though  she  spoke  so  calmly. 

"  Perchance  for  hatred,"  replied  Rose ;  "  I  have  heard  oi 
such  things.     Nay,  for  all  I  know,  he  may  have  many  motives." 

She  ceased.  Nathalie  had  grasped  her  arm,  as  if  for  sup- 
port ;  she  was  deadlypale,  and  her  quivering  lips  told  the  in- 
tensity of  her  emotion. 

"  Rose,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone,  dropping  her  glance  and 
commanding  her  agitation  as  she  spoke,  "  we  have  had  enough 
of  this." 

"  Yes,"  sorrowfully  answered  Rose,  laying  down  her  work 
to  look  at  her,  "  I  tliink  we  have." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  VEHY  graphic  account  might  easily  be  given  of  the  wrath 
of  Madame  Lavigne,  on  learning  that  Nathalie  had  come  to 
stay  for  some  time  in  her  house ;  but  as  mere  ill-temper  has 
in  itself  nothing  peculiarly  attractive,  it  is  sufficient  to  state, 
that  the  aunt  of  Rose  was  highly  indignant  with  her  niece,  and 
declared  Nathalie  should  not  remain. 

"  You  may  have  it  so,"  calmly  said  Rose,  "  for  this  house 
is  certainly  your  house ;  but  if  Nathalie  leaves  it,  I  leave  it 
also." 

The  blind  woman  heard  her  with  silent  wonder.  That 
quiet  decided  voice  told  her  Rose  meant  what  she  said,  and  as 
she  desired  nothing  less  than  the  departure  of  her  niece,  she 
felt  compelled  to  submit ;  but  indemnified  herself  by  indulging 
in  double  her  usual  amount  of  grumbling.  She  was  the  more 
vexed  that  Nathalie,  though  the  cause  of  all  this  strife,  said 
not  a  word  to  please  or  conciliate  her.  She  listened  to  all  her 
complaints  and  reproaches  in  unmoved  silence,  assisting  Rose 
in  her  work,  and  never  once  raising  her  eyes  from  it.  Thus 
the  day  passed. 

At  nine.  Rose  left  her  seat,  folded  up  her  work,  and  said : 

"  We  must  go  to  bed." 

They  proceeded  up  a  steep  staircase  to  the  little  room,  oc- 
cupied by  Rose.  It  was  meanly  and  scantily  furnished ;  a 
narrow  bed,  a  chair,  a  small  deal  table,  and  a  crucifix,  were  al) 


NATH-VLIE.  327 

tbis  nunlike  cell  contained.  Rose  laid  down  the  light  sha 
held,  saying : 

"  I  am  going  to  my  aunt's  room  ;  I  shall  soon  return,  but 
do  not  wait  for  me." 

She  glided  out  of  the  room,  and  was  gone. 

Nathalie  began  to  undress,  but  other  thoughts  came  to 
her ;  she  sat  down  on  the  chair,  and  buried  her  forehead  in 
her  hands.  The  whole  house  was  silent,  save  in  the  nest 
room,  where  she  could  hear,  as  a  low  indistinct  sound,  the  ill- 
tempered  scolding  of  Madame  Lavigne,  and  the  quiet  leplicvS 
of  the  patient  Rose.  But  she  heard  without  listening ;  the 
two  voices  came  to  her  as  in  a  dream. 

"  You  are  weeping,"  at  length  said  a  voice.     It  was  Rose. 

Nathalie  looked  up ;  she  was  pale,  but  her  eyes  were 
tearless. 

"  No,  I  am  not  weeping,"  was  her  brief  reply,  "  why  should 
I  weep?" 

Rose  did  not  answer.  She  went  up  to  the  window,  drew 
down  the  curtain,  then  came  back  again,  and  stopping  before 
her  sister,  said  briefly  : 

"  You  have  a  proud  and  haughty  heart,  Nathalie ;  know 
you  not  such  pride  is  sinful  1  1  have  watched  you  all  day 
long,  not  soliciting  the  confidence  you  would  not  grant ;  and  I 
have  seen  you  inflicting  on  yourself  the  most  acute  misery,  in 
order  to  look  indiiferent  and  calm." 

"  I  am  calm,"  interrupted  Nathalie,  rising  as  she  spoke. 

"Calm!"  echoed  her  sister,  eyeing  her  fixedly:  "why 
then  are  you  so  pale?  why  is  your  look  so  troubled,  your 
smile  so  dreary  ?  Oh  !  Nathalie  !  Nathalie  !  did  you  think 
to  deceive  me  ?" 

Nathalie  looked  up  :  her  brow,  late  so  pale,  became  flushed, 
her  lips  trembled. 

"  What  do  you  mean.  Rose  V'  she  asked. 

"  I  mean  that  I  know  all :  I  mean  that  I  know — " 

"  You  know  nothing,"  cried  Nathalie,  interrupting  her,  "  it 
is  not  true ;  no  one  would  believe  you  ;  ask  mo  nothing,  I  will 
confess  nothing  ;  you  know  nothing.  Rose." 

Her  sister  did  not  reply,  but  she  looked  at  her  with  a 
glance,  as  sad  as  it  was  penetrating. 

"  Oh  !  Rose  !  do  not  look  at  me  so,"  exclaimed  the  young 
girl  averting  her  flushed  face,  and  clasping  her  trembling 
hands,  "  do  not  with  that  keen  searching  look.  You  are 
like  Madame  Marceau  now ;  say  something,  do  not  look  so 
eilently." 


S28  NATHALIE. 

"  What  sliall  I  say  ?"  gently  asked  Eose. 

"  No,  no,  say  nothing,"  replied  her  sister  ;  "  be  merciful , 
not  a  word,  a  hint,  or  rather  a  whisper,  and  do  not  look  so ;  it 
tortures  me." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  her  whole  frame  shaking  with  the  intensity  of  her 
emotion.  Rose  eyed  her  with  deep  sorrow ;  her  features  had 
lost  their  habitual  calmness ;  she  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  with  evident  agitation ;  at  length  she  stopped  before  her 
sister,  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  drawing  her  towards  her, 
said  in  a  low  and  compassionate  tone : 

"Alas!  poor  child,  woman's  sorrows  hare  fallen  on  you 
early,  very  early." 

Nathalie  tried  to  look  calm,  to  feel  calm;  but  she  had 
struggled  with  her  feelings  too  long,  and  laying  her  head  on 
the  shoulder  of  Rose,  she  wept  long  and  bitterly.  Her  sister 
soothed  her  with  a  tenderness  she  had  not  anticipated.  She 
spoke  to  her  gently,  without  reproach  or  useless  argument ; 
compassionately  as  a  mother  might  speak  to  a  sorrowing  child. 
She  asked  no  questions,  but  her  kind  caresses  did  more  than 
inquiries  ;  at  first  Nathalie  spoke  only  in  broken  confessions  ; 
but  gradually  she  became  more  frank  and  unreserved :  half 
confidence  was  not  in  her  character  ;  she  should  tell  all  or  no- 
thing.    Rose  heard  her  sadly,  but  without  surprise. 

"  I  knew  it  long  ago,"  she  said,  "  before  you,  perhaps  ;  but 
what  availed  it  ?  What  warnings  have  ever  warded  off  the 
love  of  youth  ?  I  saw  he  had  taken  on  your  imagination  the 
dangerous  hold  no  man  ever  takes  in  vain  on  the  mind  of  wo- 
man— a  hold  the  more  dangerous  and  secure,  that  he  did  not 
seem  to  seek  it.  But  I  hoped  time  would  show  you  that  all 
this  was  folly ;  that  his  coldness  or  his  pride,  would  end  by 
repelling  you." 

"  Oh  !  Rose,"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  in  a  low  tone,  "  it  was 
that  pride  charmed  and  undid  me  ;  that  pride  which  never 
verges  into  haughtiness,  which  does  not  repel,  yet  seeks  not  to 
win,  subdues  irresistibly.  It  is  a  strange  thing  for  a  woman 
to  feel  that  she  may  be  fair  and  young  in  vain  !  strange — ay, 
and  dangerous." 

"  But  surely  you  knew  from  the  first  he  was  one  it  was 
hard,  if  not  impossible,  to  win  !" 

"  Rose,  did  you  ever  read  the  fairy  tale  of  a  proud  princess, 
who  could  not  love,  unless  where  she  was  not  loved,  and 
ff-hose  haughty  heart  bled  only  until  it  broke  with  mingled 
pride  and  grief?" 


NATHALIE.  329 

"  Oh  f  child,  I  understand  it  less  and  less :  there  aro 
ni;\nj  imperfections  in  his  character,  and  you  never  seemed 
blind  to  them  !" 

"  Blind  !  no,  for  I  was  always  seeking  for  them  as  eagerly 
as  if  I  had  been  a  secret  enemy  set  to  watch  for  and  seek  them 
out.  Perilous  search,  which  I  in  my  folly  thought  so  harm- 
less !  How  little  risk  I  should  have  run  had  he  been  perfect ; 
how  soon  I  should  have  wearied  of  seeing  him  always  do  that 
which  was  right,  admired  him  of  course,  and  thought  of  some- 
thing else.  Though  he  does  not,  it  is  true,  do  wrong,  yet  his 
impulses  and  feelings  arc  not  always  what  they  should  be  :  but 
then  his  judgment  rules  them  with  a  sway  of  iron.  I  soon 
learned  that  he  who  looked  so  calm  was  not  so ;  that  he  was  a 
perpetual  contradiction :  proud,  he  yet  forbears  to  wound  the 
pride  of  others  ;  passionate,  he  never  utters  an  angi-y  word. 
The  language  of  worldly  wisdom  is  ever  on  his  lips,  and  his 
life  is  filled  with  traits  of  the  most  romantic  generosity.  But 
though  I  gradually  discovered  all  this,  I  could  never  under- 
stand him  thoroughly  ;  for  he  is  harsh,  severe,  and  as  impla- 
cable to  others  as  he  is  to  himself,  which  is  saying  no  little. 
One  cannot  know  him  long,  without  feeling  that  there  is  a  'per- 
petual  warfare  carried  on  within  him.  Cold  as  he  seems,  ho 
has  to  strive  against  himself  to  remain  so.  You  feel  it,  and 
you  watch  anxiously,  to  see  which  of  the  two  principles  shall 
conquer  in-the  coming  contest :  shall  passion  prevail,  or  shall 
will  1  Oh  !  Rose,  he  is  a  book  to  read  on  for  ever,  without 
wearying.  You  are  lured  on,  you  know  not  how,  nor  why ; 
gtill  baffled,  yet  not  repelled,  and  there  is  the  charm — there  is 
the  danger." 

"  But,  child,  he  is  so  cold,"  gently  said  Rose;  "  he  is  inca- 
pable of  love,  for  instance." 

"  No,  Rose." 

"No?" 

"  No,  he  loved  years  ago.  It  is  a  long  story  ;  she  was  his 
cousin,  very  beautiful  and  faithless  ;  he  proved  harsh  and 
pitiless.  His  aunt  says  she  died  of  grief  Oh  !  why  did  his 
aunt  and  Madame  de  Jussac  tell  me  so  much  ?  Why  was  ho 
from  that  day  linked  in  my  mind  with  the  most  kindly  feeling 
in  humanity !  AVhy  could  I  no  longer  think  him  all  harsh- 
ness and  severity  ?  He  had  loved  once ;  I  could  read  how 
deeply,  by  the  very  sternness  of  his  resentment.  Had  he 
loved  since  then?  Would  he  ever  love  again?  How  was  he 
when  he  loved? — how  did  he  seem? — how  did  he  feel?    Thosa 


oo 


0  rCATHALIE. 


thoughts  haunted  and  troubled  my  heart  long  before  1  kne-w 
why.  His  aunt  had  also  said  no  woman  could  love  him  ;  this 
made  me  wonder  if  it  were  true.  Had  she  loved  him  ? — if  not, 
why  die  of  grief?  Had  he  loved  her  truly?  I  thought  so  ; 
yet  who  could  tell?  Did  that  marble  repose,  which  I  read  on 
his  brow,  dwell  also  in  his  heart  ?  Was  all  as  still  there  as  it 
looked  to  the  outward  eye  ?  Was  he  one  of  those  iron  men — 
for  there  are  such — whom  a  being,  pure  as  an  angel,  loving  aa 
a  woman,  fair  as  a  lily,  yet  not  too  pure  and  fair  to  cherish  ; 
something  peerless,  and  yet  quite  human — was  he  one  of  those 
w;iom  such  a  being  would  have  failed  to  win  ?  in  whose  lives  wo- 
men act  no  part,  but  bloom  and  wither  in  a  day,  like  brief  sum- 
mer flowers  ?  I  thought  so  sometimes  ;  at  others  I  doubted. 
I  knew  it  was  in  that  chateau  of  Sainville  he  had  loved.  The 
thought  pursued  me  ;  the  shadow  of  that  love,  which  ended  in 
bitterness  and  grief,  was  over  that  dwelling,  and  its  old  gar- 
den :  it  often  saddened  me,  as  I  thought,  for  her  sake.  There 
was  a  bench  near  the  river  where  he  would  sit,  until  the  stars 
grew  dim.  Had  he  sat  there  with  her  on  cool  summer  even- 
ings long  ago  ?  There  were  flowers,  in  the  green-house  which 
he  loved  ;  was  any  thing  of  her  memory  connected  with  them? 
Had  she  tended  those  same  flowers  less  pure,  less  lovely  than 
herself;  and  did  he  love  them  still,  for  something  of  her  sake  ? 
How  had  he  felt,  when  he  first  returned  to  this  home  of  his 
youth  and  earthly  affection  ?  Had  he  been  drawn  back  there 
by  the  mysterious  instinct  that  attracts  us  towards  the  spot 
that  beheld  our  first  joys  and  our  first  sorrows?  Had  a  vision 
risen  before  him  as  he  crossed  that  threshold,  beautiful  still, 
in  spite  of  broken  faith,  of  years  elapsed,  and  of  the  dark  sha- 
doT>r  of  an  early  grave  1  or  had  he  beheld  all  again  unmoved  ? 
Had  time  done  its  work,  and  eifaced  her  memory  from  his 
heart,  as  well  as  from  the  old  garden  where  I  never  found  one 
lingering  trace  of  her  being, — where  all  vestige  of  her  had 
passed  away,  like  the  mark  of  her  light  foot-prints  from  the 
earth  ?  And  then  came  the  thought :  '  I,  too,  am  young ;  and, 
unless  I  have  been  much  deceived,  well  nigh  as  fair  as  she  onco 
was :  and  this  house,  for  some  time  at  least,  is  my  home.  Must 
my  fate  be  like  hers  ?  Have  youth  and  beauty  no  better,  no  hap- 
pier destiny?  Is  all  over  with  a  few  brief  years  ;  and  when 
the  gates  of  death  have  closed  upon  us,  are  we  to  be  forgotten, 
as  she  is  now  1  Must  the  spots  we  most  loved,  which  are  filled 
with  the  glorious  and  fervent  dreams  of  our  youth,  know  us  no 
more  ?  and  oh  !  far  sadder  thought,  shall  the  hearts  where  we 


^  NATHALIE.  331 

had  made  our  inward  home, — shall  these,  too,  forget  us,  or 
remember  us  merely  as  the  pale,  scarcely  earthly  creations  of 
a  long-forgotten  dream  ?'  " 

"  Hush  !"  gently  said  Kose,  "you  are  feverish,  hush  !" 

"  Rose,  let  m.s  speak;  I  have  been  silent  long;  it  will  dc 
me  good.  I  am  not  ill,  as  you  think.  Never  was  life  more 
keenly  awake  within  me  than  it  is  now.  I  hear  with  acute 
distinctness,  and  see  with  dazzling  vividness.  Nor  is  the  in- 
ward sense  less  wakeful.  Thoughts  crowd  to  me,  and  language 
comes — all  clear  as  noonday  light ;  let  me  speak." 

"  Then  answer  me  this  question,"  resumed  Rose ;  "  how 
could  this  deep  interest  in  a  stranger  fail  to  enlighten  you?" 

Nathalie  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"It  did  not,"  she  replied  ;  '-because  I  was  simple,  credu- 
lous, and  ignorant;  I  had  no  actual  experience,  and  books  had 
taught  me  nothing.  How  is  it.  Rose,  that  you  always  read  in 
books  of  the  love  a  woman  receives,  and  so  seldom  of  that 
which  she  feels  1  I  had  dreamed  of  those  things  as  girls  will 
dream  ;  I  had  imagined  myself  beloved ;  I  h'ad  not  reflected 
that  I  would  probably  love  in  my  turn.  I  had  beheld  a  lover 
sighing  at  my  feet ;  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  love 
in  vain  ;  because  those  dreams  were  all  of  vanity  and  not  one 
of  them  came  from  the  heart.  I  would  have  been  on  my  guard 
with  Charles  Marceau,  who  loved  me  ;  but  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville  was  so  indifi'erent  and  so  cold  that  I  never  dreamed  of 
being  on  my  guard  with  him.  I  exercised  not  the  least  in- 
fluence over  him,  and  he,  without  seeking  it,  ruled  me  com- 
pletely. I  secretly  made  him  my  judge.  I  sought  to  do  that 
which  he  would  approve,  to  avoid  that  which  he  might  censure. 
I  learned  to  read  praise  or  blame  in  his  look ;  and  how  often, 
when  I  was  on  the  point  of  doing  or  saying  some  foolish  thing, 
has  that  look  checked  and  subdued  me." 

"  But  there  was  a  time  when  he  was  indifi'erent  to  you." 
persisted  Rose. 

"Ay,  a  time  that  now  seems  vague  and  indistinct,  like  a 
L  team." 

"  You  disliked  him  very  much  at  first." 

Nathalie  did  not  answer.  She  still  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed,  near  her  sister,  one  arm  passed  around  the  neck,  and 
her  head  half  reclining  against  the  shoulder  of  Rose.  Her 
eyelids  drooped,  a  faint,  rosy  hue  spread  over  her  pale  features, 
and  her  lips  trembled  with  a  half-formed  smile ;  the  smile  of 
the  girl  who  feels  how  much  wiser  she  is  in  knowledge  of  the 
heart  than  the  older  woman. 


332  NATHALIE.  ^ 

"  You  disliked  him  at  first,"  reiterated  Rose. 

"  How  do  you  know,  Rose  V'  was  the  low  rtply. 

"  How  !  Why  you  told  me  so ;  besides  you  vare  always 
abusing  him." 

"  And  you  defended  him,  Rose." 

'=  Did  you  abuse  him  to  hear  him  defended  ?"  asked  Rose, 
with  a  sudden  suspicion.  "  Oh !  Nathalie !  I  thought  you 
frank,  incapable  of  deceit!" 

"  Rose,  be  not  angry.  It  was  not  you  I  wished  to  deceive, 
but  myself.  Are  you  a  woman,  and  do  you  not  understand  the 
mysterious  instinct  and  ceaseless  desire  to  conceal  some  things 
for  ever  in  the  depths  of  the  heart?" 

Whatever  Rose  might  think,  she  knew  at  least  this  was  no 
time  to  chide.    Nathalie  resumed : 

"It  always  seemed  so  hopeless,  Rose,  that  it  was  not  hard 
to  deceive  myself;  because  my  heart  could  have  no  hope,  I  fool- 
ishly thought  it  could  have  no  desires." 

"  And  he  was  besides  so  high  above  you,"  added  Rose. 

"  It  was  not  that,"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  looking  up  with  a 
sudden  flush  of  pride.  "  I  could  have  the  heart  to  love  a  king, 
were'  he  worthy  of  it." 

"  But  what  was  it  drew  you  towards  him?" 

"  No  one  thing  in  particular,  Rose.  Love  is  not  one,  but  a 
silent  and  secret  gathering  of  many  things  unto  the  heart." 

"  Still  there  must  have  been  something :  what  was  it  ?" 

'•  Power,  perhaps ;  that  art  which  he  possesses  of  swaying 
whatever  comes  within  his  sphere  ;  of  making  others  lay  them- 
selves bare  before  him,  whilst  he  himself  remains  silent,  almost 
unmoved,  and  still  keeping  his  own  secret.  Perchance  it  was 
this  sort  of  mystery  that  attracted  mc  It  exercises  a  peculiar 
fascination  on  all ;  even  his  simple  and  artless  aunt  feels  it ; 
she  has  spoken  of  him  to  me  repeatedly,  as  '  that  person,' 
never  daring  to  mention  him  more  openly;  never  suspecting 
that  I  saw  more  in  what  she  told  me  than  she  herself,  good  sim- 
ple creature,  could  perceive.  I  sometimes  think  there  was  a 
conspiracy,  not  of  man  but  of  destiny,  to  draw  me  towards 
him,  and,*whether  I  would  or  not,  to  compel  me  to  love.  His 
aunt,  his  sister,  Madame  de  Jussac,  and  even  that  foolish 
Amanda,  could  not  speak  without  dropping  vague  hints,  which 
made  me  look  on  him  as  a  living  enigma, — guessed  by  many, 
read  by  none.  When  I  came  here,  you  always  spoke  of  him 
first;  your  aunt  taunted  me  with  his  name, — his  name  which  I 
could  never  hear  or  utter  without  a  secret  thrill,  I  will  not  say 


K ATM A LIE 


333 


if  joy,  but  of  something  far  deeper,   between  pleasure   and 
jain.     Thus  it  camo  to  pass,  that  I   tliought  of  him  much  at 
first,  constantly  afterwards,  and  that  I  ceased  to  wonder  at  a 
thought  so  continuous.     Alas  !  it  was  an  old  story,-— girlhood's 
folly  ending  in  woman's  love.      I  now  see  that  the  life  I  led  in 
that  old  chateau  was  dangerously  dull :  what  had  I  to  think  of 
or  to  do,  sstve  to  dream  my  youth  away  ?     Oh  !  let  Jjlame  ever 
fall  lightly  on  her  who  feels  outward  life  so  cold  and  so  cheer- 
less, that  she   must   needs  make  her  heart  and  its  visionary 
world  her  home.     Are  we  denied  reality,  and  shall  we  not  even 
dream  1     What  heart  of  stone  first  framed  that  law  ?     What 
heart,  more  senseless  still,  first  obeyed  it  ?     I  said  that  the  life 
I  led  there  was  dangerously  dull ;  outwardly  it  was,  but  never 
was  my  inward  life   more   full,  more  active,  more  vivid.      In 
those  dreams,  which  wove  awondcrful  romance  from  the  flight- 
est  threads  of  reality,  I  often  beheld  one  unlike  any  I  had  seen 
before,  serious,  cold,  and  impenetrable  ;  I  gave  him  no  naine, 
not  even  in  my  thoughts,  but  I  placed  him  in  imaginary  perils, 
and  strove  to  guess  how  he  would  brave  and  conjure  them  by 
the  mere  force  of  his  will.     I  saw  him  oppressed,  but  uncon- 
quered  ;  ruined,  scorned,  but  haughty  and   defiant  still.     And 
then,  when  flite  and  misfortune  had  done  their  worst,  I  placed 
a  woman  on  his  path  ;  I  did  not  make  her  fair,  or  seek  to  ask 
myself  what  was  her  aspect,  but  I  put  faith,  love,  and  rever- 
ence for  him  in  her  heart ;  and  she  sat  by  the  place  near  which 
he  was  to  pass,  not  seeking  or  alluring,  but  patient,  modest, 
and  womanlike.      Oh,  Rose  !  how  is  it  that  as   I  speak,  that 
day-dream  thrills  through  my  heart  1    How  is  it  that  I  sec  her 
there  watching  his  coming,  and  thinking  '  will  he  let  me  be 
something  to  him  ;  will  he  let  me  soothe  him  in  his  sorrow,  and 
walk    through    life   by  his  side,  his  patient,  faithful  shadow?' 
Vain  hope  !    He  draws  near  as  proud,  as  unsubdued  as  ever  ; 
wrapped  ii:  his  own  thoughts,  he  sees  her  not,  and  passes  on.    He 
sees  her  not,  though  she  has  sat  there  for  many  a  day,  patiently 
waiting  his    expected    coming !    Hose,  I  have   dreamed    that 
dream  over  and  over,  and  wondered  why  I  was  charmed  by  its 
bitterness.     Sometimes    it   changed;  sometimes   he    saw  her, 
paused,  and  spoke  : — •  My  poor  child,'  he  wondering  said,  '  what 
are  you  doing  here  1  many  have  passed  by  ;  for  whom  are  you 
waiting  thus  alone  when  the  night  is  closing  in?'     Seeing  tlint 
ehe  made  no  reply,  he  guessed  the  truth,  and  remonstrated  witli 
her    with  gentle    kindness.     '  What !    waiting  for   me  !      Oh, 
girl!  what    blindness   has  seized  you?     You  wish  to  (^'nnsolo 


S34  NATHALIE. 

me,  and  how  do  yoii  know  that  I  have  any  sorrow  to  sootbo? 
Look  at  me  well :  do  I  seem  one  of  those  who  uoed  a  woman's 
ministering  love  ?  Love  ?  I  have  no  faith  in  it !  it  is  a  folly,  a 
delusion,  a  dream  ;  and  if  you  are  young  and  beautiful,  what  is 
it  to  me  !  What  do  I  care  for  loveliness,  and  for  the  freshness 
of  early  years  ?  What  even  for  the  unsought  love  which  lives 
in  your  heart  ?  Do  I  not  know  that  youth  and  beauty  fade  ? 
that  love,  like  all  which  is  born,  must  die  ?  Be  reasonable ; 
think  of  some  other, — forget  me.  And  if  she,  unhappy  girl, 
persists  in  her  folly,  if  she  vows  that  love,  that  her  love,  is  no 
dream, — that  it  will  live  through  life  and  endure  beyond  the 
grave, — he  only  smiles  with  the  sadness  a  truer  knowledge 
gives,  and  bidding  her  a  kind  and  cold  farewell,  he  leaves  her 
there  alone  with  her  despairing  grief.  And  if  all  this  was  a 
dream,  that  sorrow,  Rose,  was  at  least  real,  for  a  day  cam.e 
when,  wilfully  blind  as  I  was,  I  yet  confessed  to  myself  that  he 
was  that  man,  and  I,  alas  !  that  desolate,  unloved  girl  for  whom 
I  wept. 

"  Oh  !  Rose,  you  do  not,  cannot  know  the  strange  feeling  it 
is  to  love  one,  who  not  only  cannot  love  you,  but  who  refuses 
to  believe  in  love.  Sometimes  I  said  to  myself:  '  he  is  not  so 
skeptical  as  he  seems  ;  yes.  I  can  read  lingering  regret  in  all 
his  doubting  ;  yes,  if  he  could,  he  would  gladly  return  to  the 
divine  fountain  we  drink  of  in  youth  ;  yes,  he  would  love  and 
live  again.  That  he  believes  in  God  and  honor  I  know  well ; 
and  that  there  is  much  of  noble  feeling  in  his  soul,  and  of 
high  goodness  in  his  heart,  I  know  better  still  Could  that 
weak,  faithless  woman  win  all  the  love  he  had  to  bestow?  All  ? 
And  her  image  rose  before  me,  and  I  asked  myself  if  she  had 
been  so  very  'air  ?  Alas  !  she  had.  How  often  have  I  gazed 
at  her  portrait,  and  felt  jealous  of  that  beauty  which  had  passed 
away  from  earth,  in  all  its  dazzling  freshness,  to  haunt  him 
still  beyond  the  grave,  and  made  every  other  woman  look  pale 
and  dim  in  his  sight  !  For  who  could  tell  whether  death  had 
not,  with  strange  power,  restored  his  love  to  her,  even  as  it  had 
given  her  that  gift  of  eternal  youth  and  loveliness  which  time 
would  have  so  ruthlessly  faded  ?  Other  women  might  be  fiiir  ; 
what  matter  ?  their  beauty  would  fode ;  hers  endured.  Oh  I 
there  are  strange  contradictions  in  the  human  heart !  He  had 
cast  her  from  him  ;  but  this  did  not  prove  he  did  not  love  her. 
Might  she  not  have  become  to  him  as  the  memory  of  Eden 
became  to  sinful  and  sorrowing  Eve  ? — a  green  oasis  lost  for 
ever,  but  clothed  with  an  immortal  beauty  that  made  all  the 
perishable  gardens  of  earth  soem  as  dreary  deserts  ! 


XATIIALIU.  635 

*■  Oil  !  Ros(!,  do  you  think  me  mad,  or  do  you  undcrstaud 
mc  ?  Can  you  guess  that  the  thoughts,  the  doubts,  which  tor- 
ture love  are  also  those  which  feed  it  ?  Had  I  been  sure  of 
any  thing,  hope  might  have  perished  at  once  ;  vanity  or  pride 
might  have  cured  mo.  But  I  knew  nothing.  I  was  tossed  on 
a  sea  of  uncertainty,  beyond  which,  on  a  distant  shore,  smiled 
a  hope,  oh  !  how  fair,  that  beckoned  and  lured  me  on  through 
every  doubt  and  danger.  I  resisted ;  I  called  pride  to  my  aid ; 
I  said  I  would  not  love  one  who  cared  not  for  me  ;  but  again 
I  became  weak,  and  declaring  it  was  too  late,  I  closed  my  eyes 
and  surrendered  myself  to  the  stream.  There  was  a  strange 
and  perilous  pleasure  in  feeling  myself  carried  down  by  that 
rapid  current,  without  knowing  whether  it  would  lead  me  to 
the  blest  haven  of  rest,  or  wreck  me  for  ever  on  the  rocky  shore 
of  despair.  And  thus  deluded  by  the  syren  Hope,  and  far 
more  by  my  own  heart,  still  blind  to  the  severe  truth  before 
me,  I  gave  myself  np  to  the  most  delirious  dream  my  youth 
had  yet  known.  If  the  delirium  was  guilty,  bitter  has  been 
the  awakeping.  Bitter  was  the  day  on  which  I  felt,  '  beautiful 
I  may  be,  but  not  for  him  ;  I  can  charm  other  looks,  many 
perchance,  but  not  his.'  Oh  !  Rose,  there  lies  the  depth  of  my 
despair,  there  is  the  ever-renewing  source  of  my  bitter  sorrow , 
for  if  I  were  plain,  I  might  have  fed  my  heart  witli  thoughts 
of  how  I  could  have  won  him  had  Grod  made  me  fair ;  but  now 
I  feel  that  youth  and  beauty  have  both  been  mine  in  vain.  Oh  ! 
why  is  this  ?  Why  have  I  not  the  nameless  grace  which  is  not 
beauty,  but  possesses  a  power  far  beyond, — the  charm  that 
would  have  subdued  his  proud  heart,  and,  whether  he  would  or 
not,  have  made  it  mine  ?  Why  could  his  least  word  make  me 
blush  and  tremble,  whilst  he  remained  unmoved  though  I  was 
near  ?  Oh  !  worthless  is  the  loveliness  unseen  by  the  eye  of 
those  we  love.     Oh  !  sister,  sister,  pity  me  !" 

She  wept,  and  for  awhile  her  half-stifled  sobs  broke  on  the 
silence  of  the  narrow  room  ;  but  she  soon  became  hushed  again ; 
it  was  Rose  who  spoke  next. 

"  Alas  !"  said  she,  in  a  sorrowful  tone,  "  I  have  turned  over 
another  page  of  the  old  story  of  woman's  wasted  love  and  j'outh. 
I  knew  it,  but  still  it  is  hard  to  watch  a  being  daily  growing 
up  in  purity  and  grace,  and  to  know  from  the  first,  what  the 
end  will  be." 

She  seemed  to  address  her  own  thoughts,  and  not  Nathalie. 
There  was  a  pause. 

"  Did  you  then  know  what  the  end  would  be  ?"  at  length 
aaked  her  sister. 


33G  IVATUALIE. 

"  I  did,  child.  Tlie  beginning  of  the  story  may  vai'y  ;  the 
end  is  still  the  same  :  disappointment." 

"  But  did  you  know  how  it  would  end  in  this  case  ?" 

"  Any  one  could  have  known  it.  You  such  a  child,  he  go 
grave  and  severe  ;  any  one  could  have  known  it." 

'•  Who  can  tell  1  who  knows  ?"  murmured  Nathalie,  in  a 
!ow  tone. 

"  What !"  incredulously  exclaimed  Rose. 

"  Who  knows  !"  repeated  her  sister. 

"  Oh  !  child  !  do  not  deceive  yourself."  gently  urged  Rose, 
'•  do  not.  Believe  me,  I  have  seen  him  little,  but  I  can  tell  you 
this  :  A  man  like  him  will  never  love  one  so  young." 

Nathalie  raised  her  head  from  the  shoulder  of  Rose,  and 
shook  it  gently,  wliilst  her  lips  parted  with  a  smile  of  sadness, 
half  blending  with  triumjjh. 

"  You  cannot  tell.  Rose,"  she  said,  "  you  cannot  tell ;  you 
have  not  sat  in  the  same  room  with  him,  evening  after  even- 
ing. You  have  not  learned  to  divine  the  hidden  sense  of  his 
coldest  tones,  and  to  read  the  meaning  of  his  calmest  glances. 
You  have  not  blushed  over  a  page  your  eye  saw,  but  did  not 
read  because  3?'ou  felt  that  another's  look  was  reading  far  more 
surely  every  passing  thought  and  feeling  on  your  brow.  You 
have  not  rebelled  at  length  against  this  inquisition,  and  looked 
up  to  brave  the  smile,  kind,  yet  conscious,  that  still  seemed  tc 
say  :  '  No  maiden's  heart  is  a  mystery  to  me.'  " 

"  What  !  does  he  love  you  then  !"  interrupted  Rose. 

"  Alas  !  I  do  not,  I  dare  not  say  so,"  despondingly  replied 
her  sister,  "  to  like  and  love  are  vastly  different.     I  think  he 
iiked  me,  a  liking  that  might  perhaps  have  ripened  into  love, 
but  he  is  severe,  and  I  was  weighed,  found  wanting,  and  re 
jeeted,  not  in  word,  but  in  deed." 

"  But  awhile  ago  you  spoke  of  his  utter  indifference." 

'•  Rose,  the  heart  has  two  creeds  :  Despair  and  hope,  often 
equally  wide  of  truth.  It  believes  either,  in  that  which  it  most 
dreads,  or  in  that  which  it  passionately  desires  to  be  true. 
Sometimes  I  say  to  myself:  '  I  am  mad  :  he  care  for  me  !  Oh 
folly  !'  and  at  other  times  hope  whispers  to  my  heart :  '  Why 
not  V  and  she  bids  me  remember  gentle  words,  kind  smiles, 
and  lingering  looks,  that  all  rush  back  to  me  with  a  strange 
bewildering  meaning.  I  feel  those  remembrances  are  too  in- 
toxicating to  be  true,  and  yet  too  vivid  to  be  merely  the  dreams 
ef  a  longing  heart.  More  I  might  have  known,  but  you  will 
wonder  perhaps  when  I  tell  you,  I  would  not.     I  thought  of 


NATHALIE.  337 

him  constant!}^,  and  sbunncil  his  presence.  I  have  hidden  in 
the  garden  when  I  kne^y  him  to  be  there  ;  I  have  lingered  in 
the  gloom  of  the  staircase  lest  I  should  meet  him.  Daring  I 
may  be,  but  I  am  not  of  those  who  court  a  man's  notice,  and 
go  half  way  to  meet  the  love  they  most  longed  for.  Like  the 
imaginary  maiden  of  my  dream,  I  may  sit  by  the  road-side  and 
wait  in  silent  hope,  but  though  I  should  die  of  grief,  I  will  not 
move  one  step  to  meet  or  utter  one  word  to  arrest  him.  Some- 
times I  thought  he  was  almost  vexed  :  at  other  times  I  fancied 
this  reserve,  which  was  not  shyness,  piqued,  but  did  not  dis- 
please him." 

"  Did  he  seek  to  meet  you  ?"  asked  Kose. 
"  No.  He  was  my  host,  and  never  forgot  it ;  but  when  we 
did  meet  he  seemed  to  me  a  little  nettled,  and  perhaps  offended 
at  the  opportunities  I  seized  to  shorten  our  meetings.  It  was 
not  prudery,  far  less  mistrust ;  but  I  had  a  mortal  fear  of  be- 
traying myself  in  a  way  I  should  ever  repent.  Generous  in 
some  things  he  may  be,  but  not  in  all.  I  have  seen  in  him  a 
strange  desire  to  hide  as  carefully  what  he  feels  as  to  discover 
what  is  felt  by  others.  If  he  ever  loves,  the  woman  must  lay 
her  heart  bare  before  him,  and  be  content  with  glimpses  of  his 
own.  Now  to  this  I  would  not  submit ;  if  he  saw  my  folly,  he 
should  also  see  that  I  was  neither  forward  nor  unwomanly.  I 
kept  aloof  from  him  ;  a  plan  his  sister  favored.  Rose,  Mad- 
ame Marceau  read  my  heart,  its  hopes,  its  wishes,  but  she  never 
read  its  pride,  or  she  had  not  fancied  I  needed  watching.  So 
foreign  was  such  a  thought  to  me,  that  at  the  time  I  never  sus- 
pected I  was  suspected.  Thus  passed  the  winter ;  I  saw  him 
daily,  never  alone  ;  but  the  heart  makes  its  own  solitude. 
When  his  sister  slept,  or  feigned  to  sleep,  when  we  both  sat 
near  the  hearth,  reading  silently,  was  it  with  him  as  with  me, 
and  did  his  thoughts  wander  from  the  unread  page  into  that 
visionary  world  which  had  become  my  second  life  ?  Alas  !  to 
this  hour  I  cannot  teU.  Was  he  not  a  serious  man,  too  grave 
for  the  thoughts  that  might  haunt  a  dreaming  girl  ?  Oh  ! 
Rose,  I  fear  that  when  women  are  deceived  in  men,  it  is  often 
— I  do  not  say  always — because  they  judge  of  them  as  of  them- 
Belves,  and  attribute  to  them  feelings  and  phantasies  that 
belong  to  the  restless  heart  of  woman  alone  ;  but  as  I  said, 
thus  passed  the  winter.  Spring  came  ;  and  one  morning,  when 
my  hopes  were  as  pure  and  fresh  as  that  lovely  spring  time, 
Madame  Marceau  told  me  her  brother  had  taken  a  resolve,  a 
sort  of  vow,  never  to  marry  ;  his  aunt  confirmed  it.     A  chiU 

15 


338  NATHALIE. 

fell  on  iny  heart,  yet,  strauge  to  say,  I  doubted.  I  asked  iny« 
self  '  do  meu  keep  those  vows  which  women  so  often  break  '^ 
Who  knows  whether  he,  proud  and  cold  as  he  looks,  may  not 
yet  be  glad  to  break  his  V  Little  time  had  I  to  think  of  this, 
for  the  very  next  day  Charles  Marceau  returned.  I  had  a  pre- 
sentiment that  he  would  be  fatal  to  me,  and  I  resolved  to  leave 
at  once.  I  met  Monsieur  de  Sainville  by  chance  in  the  library. 
I  could  scarcely  repeat  what  he  said,  and  yet  at  the  time  I 
thought,  •  do  men  speak  thus  to  a  woman  for  whom  they  care 
not  V  In  spite  of  my  reserve  I  let  him  see  how  deep  was  my 
faith  in  him,  and  he  seemed  pleased  to  be  thus  trusted,  and 
exacted  and  obtained  a  promise  implying  still  deeper  trust. 
Oh  !  that  I  had  kept  to  this  faith  !  Rose,  how  shall  I  tell  you 
the  rest  ?  You  know  me ;  you  know  that  I  am  credulous  and 
easily  deceived  by  art — alas  !  another  knows  it  too — but  you 
do  not  know  that  woman.  She  asked  me  to  marry  her  son  ; 
he  came  in  to  tell  us  his  uncle  had  consented,  and  this  latter 
consent  stung  me  so  deeply  that  I  forgot  to  ask  myself  how 
that  proud  woman  could  have  thought  of  me  for  her  daughter, 
unless  through  the  fear  of  a  danger  that  would  have  been  the 
realization  of  all  my  dreams.  Then,  when  I  was  thus  dis- 
turbed, did  she  for  the  first  time  let  me  see  that  she  under- 
stood me. 

"  How  can  I  tell  you  the  look  of  her  searching  eyes,  when 
she  said,  with  a  smile,  that  no  woman  could  deceive  another. 
My  heart  lay,  indeed,  bare  before  her,  to  bandle  and  pierce  ; 
and  what  quivering  nerve  did  she  fail  to  touch,  in  order  to 
win  me  over  to  her  purpose?  Rose,  do  you  think  there 
is  aught  so  cruel  as  one  woman  can  be  to  another  woman  ? 
She  spoke  vaguely  in  hints  that  stung  me  one  by  one :  '  it  was 
not  mere  consent,  it  was  approbation  her  brother  had  given  ; 
he  had  long  desired  this  marriage ;  they  had  talked  it  over ; 
but  he  had  urged  delay,  because  he  saw  my  weakness,  and 
pitied  it ;  but  I  need  not  fear, — he  was  a  man  of  honor.' 
Most  artfully  did  she  blend  that  which  was  false  with  that 
which  I  knew  to  be  true.  In  an  unhappy  moment,  she  wrung 
from  me  a  bitter  doubt  of  his  honor ;  but  the  next  instant  my 
faith  had  returned.  I  remembered  his  words,  his  looks  ;  they 
were  not  those  which  reluctant  pity  yields.  I  understood  hia 
reserve  ;  it  was  not  coldness,  it  was  delicacy  that  had  kept  him 
silent.  Would  I  have  had  him  become  the  rival  of  his  owii 
nephew, — of  his  dying  sister's  son  ? 

"  He  came  in  ;  and  before  his  calm  look  and  plain  speech, 


NATHALIE.  o')2 

Ler  falsehood  stocd  revealed.  A  thrill  of  happiness  went 
through  my  whole  frame,  when  he  denied  having  given  mora 
than  a  passive  consent  to  the  projected  marriage ;  when 
he  declared  I  was  the  last  woman  he  would  have  chosen  for  his 
nephew's  wife.  Oh  !  Rose,  for  one  moment  the  cup  of  hap- 
piness was  oifered  to  my  lip,  and  I  drank  eagerly  of  its 
rapturous  flow ;  but  how  soon  did  her  cruel  hand  snatch 
it  from  me.  Though  by  so  doing,  she  confirmed  the  proof  oi 
her  treachery,  she  repeated  every  word  I  had  heedlessly 
uttered.  He  remained  indifferent  until  she  came  to  that  slur 
on  his  honor.  My  heart  failed  me  ;  his  look,  his  mien,  all 
I  knew  of  him,  told  me  my  doom  was  sealed  for  ever.  Perhaps 
you  think  it  was  grief  I  felt  then ;  ay,  keen,  poignant  grief, 
but  strangely  mixed  with  a  proud  and  bitter  resentment. 
If  he  loved,  he  was  too  pitiless ;  if  he  did  not  love,  what  right 
had  he  to  show  himself  so  haughty  and  exacting?  He  had 
never  wooed  me,  why  did  he  now  treat  me  like  one  rejected? 
This  thought  was  like  death, — oh  !  more  bitter  by  far.  What 
is  death  ? — the  pang  of  a  moment :  wounded  love  and  pride 
bleed  daily.  And  my  pride  was  roused  within  me  ;  I  felt  in  a 
mood  to  do  myself  some  mortal  injury,  in  order  to  inflict 
on  him  one  keen,  sharp  sorrow ; — to  marry  his  nephew,  be 
miserable  for  my  whole  existence,  and  add  to  the  story  of  his 
life  another  regret,  and,  perchance,  a  second  and  surer  vow.  I 
thought  I  saw  where  I  could  wound  him,  and  I  resolved  to 
utter  in  his  presence  the  words  that  should  doom  me,  to 
see  how  he  would  feel  ;  whether  he  would  start,  or  color, 
or  turn  pale,  or  betray,  ay,  even  faintly,  but  I  could  have  seen 
it,  that  those  words  afiected  him. 

"  Madame  Marceau  spoke  of  me  as  '  her  daughter.'  '  Then 
she  has  consented  ?'  he  involuntarily  exclaimed,  and  fastened 
his  look  on  me  to  read  the  reply  in  mine  eyes.  I  bade 
my  brow  be  clear,  my  look  be  steady,  ray  whole  aspect  to 
bespeak  calmness.  I  seemed  not  startled  like  one  who  has 
heard  an  untruth,  but  as  composed  as  one  who  has  heard 
a  fact.  Oh  !  Rose,  how  I  triumphed  for  one  moment !  Ho 
started,  and  either  the  changeful  light  deceived  me,  or  he 
turned  pale.  I  triumphed  ;  yes,  though  I  had  resolved  to  seal 
my  own  fate — though  my  heart  was  breaking,  I  triumphed  " 
for  I  thought  that  his  heart,  though  so  proud  and  haughty 
was  yet  touched  to  the  quick,  and,  in  its  turn,  had  felt  the 
bitter  sting  of  love  scorned  and  rejected." 

The  eyes  of  Nathalie  kindled  ;  her  cheeks  were  flushed, 


B40  NATHALIE. 

her  lips  compressed,  as  if  the  passion  of  that  moment  lived 
once  more  withjn  her  as  she  spoke. 

"  Well  ?"  said  Rose,  interested.  The  countenance  of  her 
sister  fell. 

"  Alas !"  she  replied,  with  deep  sadness,  "  he  had  not 
startled,  trembled,  or  turned  pale  ;  he  had  only  changed 
his  attitude — it  was  only  the  doubtful  light  of  the  obscured 
room  that  deceived  me,  as  it  foil  on  his  features.  In  vain 
I  looked,  in  vain  I  tried  to  detect  again  on  his  features  that 
passing  emotion :  he  had  petrified  himself.  Now,  if  I  chose, 
was  the  moment  of  my  expected  vengeance.  Oh  !  Rose,  what 
I  felt  then  !  I  bowed  my  head,  and  half  closed  my  eyes  like 
one  who  crosses  a  precipice,  and  who  will  not  look  on  either 
side,  because  to  look  is  to  perish  irretrievably.  I  would  not 
grant  him  the  triumph  of  hearing  me  once  more  refuse 
Charles ;  I  had  no  longer  the  cruel  courage  of  dooming 
myself  to  misery :  I  chose  a  medium  course,  and  asked  for 
time  to  reflect.  Perhaps,  in  the  secret  folly  of  my  heart, 
I  thought  to  give  him  time  to  repent.  Folly,  indeed  :  that 
same  day  he  left  for  a  whole  fortnight,  without  seeking  to  see 
me.  I  was  in  the  salon  with  his  sister  ;  and  pitiless  as  are  all 
of  that  race,  she  bade  me  listen  to  the  receding  sound  of  his 
horse's  hoofs.  I  did  listen,  and  that  sound,  which  was  as  the 
knell  of  my  departed  hopes,  still  seems  to  ring  in  my  eai. 
Had  tliat  man  ever  cared  for  me?  I  knew  not  then,  I  know 
not  now;  but  this  I  know — that  my  heart  failed  me,  and  my 
last  hope  perished  from  that  hour.  For  three  days  I  was 
calm  enough.  Charles  Marceau  was  away ;  to  become  his 
wife  did  not  seem  so  dreadful  a  fate.  But  on  the  fourth  day 
he  returned  ;  and  then  I  knew  it  was  not  indifference  I  felt  for 
him,  but  something  almost  akin  to  hatred.  How  I  detested 
his  dark,  handsome  face,  and  his  voice  of  unbroken  smooth- 
ness. I  believe  he  saw  it,  for  he  tormented  me  to  his  heart's 
content ;  his  look  never  left  me :  there  was  ever  some  double 
meaning  in  his  speech,  and  yet.  with  all  this,  there  was  also  a 
Btrange  sort  of  love,  of  desire  to  please,  of  involuntary  homage, 
which  irritated  me  more  than  all  It  was  a  day  such  as  I  have 
never  spent.  'Wilt  thou  marry  that  man?'  ceasingly  said  a 
voice  within  me  ;  '  wilt  thou  chain  thyself  for  life  to  one  whom 
thou  loathest?'  In  vain  I  strove  not  to  hear  or  to  heed  ;  to 
call  in  pride  to  quell  that  tumult  in  my  soul,  I  could  neither 
silence  the  cry  of  conscience,  nor  win  peace.  Towards  even- 
ing   I   left   the   chateau,  and  went  to  the  abbey-church.     1 


natiialit:.  341 

lliouglit  thfit  there  I  should  be  more  free  to  think  and  decidC'. 
that  some  holy  influence  would  subdue  the  strife  ■within  me. 
I  knelt  where  you  saw  me,  but  besought  in  vain  for  courage  lo 
accomplish  what  I  still  persisted  in  considering  my  destiny : 
in  vain  1  called  wounded  pride  to  my  aid,  the  holy  silence  ol 
that  place  still  reproved  me.  I  felt  indignant  at  my  own 
weakness.  I  resolved  to  take  a  vow  of  marrying  the  man  1 
iiatod.  for  the  sake  of  punishing,  perhaps,  the  man  I  loved." 

'•  Did  you  take  that  vow  ?"  asked  Rose. 

"  No  ;  I  dared  not.  But  I  made  m3'sclf  an  omen  by  whicii, 
come  what  would,  I  resolved  to  abide.  Oh,  Rose !  I  am  no 
fatalist,  but  to  feel  deeply,  is  to  deliver  up  heart  and  soul  to 
every  passing  superstition :  I  said  to  myself,  he  is  gone  for  a 
whole  fortnight,  it  is  impossible  he  should  return,  and  because 
it  is  impossible,  I  will  make  that  the  condition  of  my  vow.  li 
he  does  not  return,  and  I  know  that  he  will  not,  I  will  agree 
to-morrow  to  marry  his  nephew ;  if  he  does  come  back,  it  is  a 
sign  that  I  must  not  persist ;  that  come  what  will,  Charles 
Marceau  must  be  nought  to  me.  Alas  !  it  is  thus  the  heart 
ever  makes  its  own  fatality." 

Rose  eyed  her  sister  with  mournful  severity. 

*•  Is  it  thus  you  understand  prayer?"  she  said.  Oh  !  Na- 
thalie, prayer  is  not  what  you  deem,  mere  traffic  with  heaven. 
It  is  communion  with  the  infinite  and  the  divine;  it  is  not  a 
clinging  to  earth,  but  a  raising  of  the  spirit  towards  all  eternal 
things." 

'•  Rose,"  sorrowfully  replied  her  sister,  '•  you  may  feel  it 
thus,  but  let  those  who  pray  for  their  sorrow  to  be  removed 
hold  another  creed.  The  erring  child  can  surely  ask  for  its 
burden  of  misery  to  be  lightened,  and  have  we  not  a  Father 
full  of  tenderness  ?  Tell  me  not  that  the  weak  prayer  of  the 
sinner  is  not  heard  as  well  as  the  pure  aspiration  of  the  just. 
There  is  in  the  despair  of  a  breaking  heart,  though  ever  so 
guilty,  a  voice  that  will  rise  from  earth  and  pierce  the  verj' 
depths  of  heaven  !  How  do  you  know  that,  as  I  knelt  there, 
ray  soul  darkened  by  earthly  shadows,  this  secret  sorrow  did 
not  yet  meet  with  mercy  1  What  passed  between  us  I  need 
not  tell  you.  I  know  now  that  all  you  said  of  a  guilty  love 
was  meant  as  a  solemn  warning.  You  are  pitiless.  Rose  ;  can 
you  imagine  the  torture  you  inflicted  upon  me  ?  You  said  he 
flight  marry,  and  I  asked  myself,  '  why  not  V  I  strove  to  look 
as  if  calculating  the  chance  of  a  lost  inheritance,  but  I  had  far 
other  thoughts,  far  other  feelings.     I  was  imagining  Iiow  he 


342  NATHALIE. 

would  look  and  speak  with  the  woman  he  might  love — for  1 
felt  that  he  would  love  her — and  I  was  calling  that  woman 
blessed,  and  already  envying  her  with  all  the  might  and  passion 
of  a  jealous  heart.  And  then,  as  if  my  cup  of  bitterness  were 
not  yet  brimful,  came  the  torturing  thought  that  I  might  have 
beeij  that  woman  ;  it  was  but  a  chance,  but  had  I  not  cast  it 
from  me,  it  might  have  been  mine.  I  betrayed  nothing  of 
what  I  felt ;  even  to  myself  I  would  not  have  acknowledged  it. 
We  parted.  I  returned  to  the  chateau  ;  but  when  I  reached 
the  gate,  I  paused  ;  I  could  not  cross  that  threshold  over  which 
— as  Dante  over  the  entrance  of  the  awful  city — I  seemed  to 
see  written  the  fatal  fiat,  '  leave  all  hope  behind.' 

"  I  walked  on  ;  the  evening  was  clear  and  mild,  and  the 
road,  save  where  some  belated  peasant  returned  from  his  labor, 
lonely.  The  moon  was  high  ;  on  my  right  were  narrow  fields, 
skirted  with  a  wood,  which  rose  dark  and  indistinct  against 
the  pale  blue  sky ;  and  on  my  left,  a  plain,  sloping  down  to 
the  valley,  in  which  the  river  flowed  silently.  In  the  deepest 
shade  I  could  see  the  low  cottages,  that  seemed  to  be  stepping 
into  the  water,  with  their  whitewashed  walls  and  moss-grown 
roofs ;  and  my  heart  smote  me  as  I  thought,  '  Oh  !  that  one  of 
these  had  been  my  home,  and  not  the  proud  chateau  of  Sain- 
ville.'  The  cool  breeze,  the  quietness  of  that  evening  time, 
soothed,  however,  the  secret  fever  of  my  soul.  I  contin- 
ued to  walk  on  ;  I  wished  to  fatigue  ray  body.  I  succeeded, 
and  was  at  length  compelled  to  pause  and  rest.  There  is  a 
group  of  aspens  that  grows  by  the  roadside ;  I  sat  down  on  a 
mound  of  earth  near  it.  The  breeze  rose,  and  stirred  the 
branches  above  me,  and,  with  the  low,  rustling  sound,  came 
back  those  remembrances,  against  which  I  was  striving  cease- 
lessly, and  striving  still  in  vain.  How  often  had  that  sound 
greeted  my  ear  in  Sainville,  by  that  same  quiet  stream  !  I  re- 
membered one  evening,  beautiful  and  calm  like  this,  when  I 
stood  with  him  and  his  aunt  by  the  river  side.  He  was  speak- 
ing to  her  ;  I  had  remained  a  few  paces  behind  them  :  he  sud- 
denly turned  to  address  me,  and  his  look,  his  tone,  the  gliding 
stream,  the  rustling  aspen-tree,  the  quiet  landscape  beyond, — 
all  rushed  back  to  me  in  one  moment.  Oh  !  that  the  past  were 
not  the  past,  I  thought ;  that  the  dreary  present  were  yet  an 
unknown  future  smiling  before  me-.  I  bowed  ray  head,  not  to 
weep,  but  I  felt  faint,  heart-sick  and  weary.  A  distant  sound 
aroused  rae  ;  a  horseman  was  coming  along  the  road,  at  a  slow 
pace.     I  raised  my  head,  but  without  daring  to  look  round. 


NATHAHK.  343 

riic  sound  drew  nearer :  it  was  he;  I  &aw  him,  for  the  light  of 
the  moon  fell  full  upon  his  face,  as  he  rode  slowly  by,  within  a 
few  paces  of  me.  I  was  not  sitting  in  the  shade  ;  yet  his  look 
did  not  once  seek  me  ;  it  was  fixed  on  the  horizon  before  him, 
and  there  it  remained,  and  fell  not  on  her  who,  her  pride  all 
subdued,  waited  his  half-expected  greeting  with  a  beating 
heart. 

''  Here  was  the  sign  I  had  asked  for,  and  here,  oh,  strange 
are  the  presentiments  of  the  heart !  was  also  the  fulfilment  of 
my  old  day-dream.  I  sitting  by  the  road-side  and  he  passing 
on.  I  looked  after  him  as  he  receded  in  the  distance,  and  1 
thought,  it  has  come  to  this  ;  he  cares  so  little  for  me,  that 
when  we  meet  by  chance,  he  either  does  not  recognize  me,  or  if 
he  does,  feigns  not  to  see  me.  What  folly  once  made  me  think, 
that  because  I  had  a  heart  I  had  also  the  privilege  of  feeling? 
Why  has  God  given  woman  a  heart  to  love  ?  Why  must  she 
who  loves  most  truly  pine  away  in  silence,  whilst  man,  to  whom 
love  is  but  a  pastime,  alone  can  speak  1  He  is  deeply  oftended  ; 
I  have  lost.  I  will  not  say  his  aff'ection,  which  I  never  had,  but 
his  friendship  and  esteem,  yet  under  pain  of  the  grossest  mis- 
constructions I  must  not  seek  to  recover  either.  Why,  since 
those  laws  of  opinion  are  so  stringent,  why  cannot  some  things 
be  said  without  words  ?  why  is  there  no  language  from  heart 
to  heart,  as  rapid,  silent,  and  as  truthful  as  the  thought  that 
springs  within  us  ?  Why,  above  all,  am  I  so  miserable,  when 
so  very  little  happiness  would  have  done  for  me  !  I  was 
neitlier  proud  nor  ambitious.  One  winter  evening  as  I  was 
with  his  aunt,  he  came  and  joined  us  ;  he  sat  by  her  side,  I,  on 
my  low  stool,  was  thus  in  some  sort  at  the  feet  of  both.  He 
spoke  of  his  travels,  of  many  a  distant  scene,  of  foreign  lands 
which  he  had  visited.  I  listened  in  rapt  and  silent  attention, 
for  I  felt  in  my  heart  as  if  I  could  have  been  content  to  pass 
thus  through  life,  sitting  at  his  feet  and  listening  to  his  teach- 
ing. But  as  I  remembered  my  love's  humility,  pride  was  once 
more  roused  within  me,  and  I  almost  hated  him  in  my  heart. 

"  I  returned  to  the  chateau,  and  went  up  to  my  room  to 
prepare  for  the  morrow's  departure.  Childish  as  you  will  think 
it,  I  would  not  have  dared  to  disobey  that  sign  of  my  own 
choosing.  My  room  was  dark,  but  a  light  fell  on  the  floor  ; 
that  light  I  knew  it  well ;  it  came  from  a  window  facing  mine. 
How  often,  vain  and  credulous  girl,  had  I  watched  it,  standing 
hidden  in  the  shade,  smiling  at  the  folly  of  my  dreams,  and 
yet  still  dreaming   on.    But  now  I  would  not :  that  time  was 


S4'l  NATHA.LIE. 

over  ;  I  tliouglit  of  it  with  secret  sorrow, — my  hand  was  on  tlia 
curtain  to  shut  out  even  that  glimpse  :  what  arrested  it,  what 
kept  me,  in  spite  of  anger  and  struggling  pride,  rooted  to  the 
spot?  The  old  spell  was  on  me.  A  thin  curtain  fell  between 
him  and  the  window,  but  I  could  see  his  figure  passing  to  and 
fro  :  he  was  very  restless ;  his  step  was  uneven  ;  once  he  stop- 
ped short  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  remained  there  mo- 
tionless full  five  minutes;  then  he  sat  down,  but  he  could  not 
stay,  and  soon  rose  once  more.  Never  before  had  I  seen  him 
thus.  A  joy  in  which  blended  a  sense  of  acute  pain  came  over 
mo.  Ho  was  unhappy,  restless  at  least.  Had  I  any  part  in 
this?  He  had  not  retired  to  rest  when  I  left  the  window. 
What  conclusions  I  drew  from  his  seeming  agitation  !  what 
visions  I  welcomed !  In  vain  had  I  sufiered,  in  vain  been 
taught  by  sorrow,  oh,  dreams,  dreams  of  the  heart !  are  ye  then 
eternal?  I  did  not  sleep  until  morning,  yet  it  was  early  when 
I  woke.  In  the  clear  daylight  I  derided  the  dreams  I  had 
been  indulging,  and  again  called  pride  to  my  aid.  I  was  soon 
dressed  and  ready  ;  I  would  see  no  one :  I  had  a  horror  of  all 
explanations — I  wished,  if  possible,  he  should  think  I  was 
ignorant  of  his  return.  I  left ;  it  was  easy  :  a  servant  met  me 
near  the  gate,  and  seemed  surprised  to  see  me  out  at  this  early 
hour,  but  even  he  did  not  speak — not  a  voice  was  raised,  not  a 
word  was  spoken  to  detain  me  in  that  house,  to  me  so  fatal.  I 
felt  bitter,  unhappy,  and  slighted,  and  yet  by  a  strange  contra- 
diction, I  felt  also  that  I  would  not,  even  if  I  could,  have  torii 
out  from  the  book  of  my  destiny  the  pages  on  which  fate  had 
written  the  story  of  my  love.  Oh  !  Rose,  I  am  very  weak  after 
all ;  my  resentment  is  dying  fast  away :  the  harshness  seems 
to  vanish,  and  all  the  kindness  to  return.  Unhappy  as  it  has 
made  me,  I  see  I  cannot  repent  this  feeling ;  it  has  changed 
my  being  ;  it  has  made  me  better — it  has  given  me  life  which 
I  knew  not  till  then.  I  was  a  child  before,  I  am  a  woman  now. 
Be  it  so ;  sorrow  shall  purify  me  still  further.  I  will  give 
myself  a  higher  motive  of  action  than  I  have  had  till  now — I 
will  suffer,  and  love  on,  though  without  a  ray  of  hope." 

'•  And  you  will  make  him  the  idol  of  your  heart,  and  give 
him  the  place  that  should  belong  to  Grod  alone?"  said  Rose, 
with  mournful  severity. 

"  You  are  right,"  sadly  replied  Nathalie,  after  a  brief  silence ; 
"  but,  oh  !  Rose,  since  I  may  not  forget,  what  can  I  do  ?" 

She  spoke  so  submissivelj^,  and  yet,  so  despairingly,  that 


NATHALIE.  345 

Lur  sister  had  not  the  heart  to  chido.     She  pressed  her  to  her 
bosom,  and  merelv  said  : 
"  Pray." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

There  was  nothing  querulous  or  complaining  in  the  char- 
acter of  Nathalie  She  was  not  patient :  she  might  often  revolt 
against  her  fate,  but  she  disdained  to  lament  it.  Her  nature 
was  too  fiery  and  too  vehement  ever  to  vei'ge  into  the  weakness 
of  repining. 

She  had  poured  out  her  heart  to  Rose,  because  it  was  then 
full  even  to  overflowing ;  the  confidence  had  relieved  her,  but 
having  once  told  her  sister  all  with  the  most  unreserved  free- 
dom, she  thought  this  sufiicient,  and  did  not  so  much  as  dream 
of  again  renewing  the  subject.  Rose  was  surprised  ;  she  had 
not  expected  this.  She  watched  her  sister  anxiously.  Nathalio 
was  certainly  pale  and  did  not  seem  in  good  health  ;  but  her 
features  were  more  serious  than  sad.  When  she  rose  in  the 
morning,  she  had  the  worn  look  of  one  who  has  spent  a  sleepless 
night ;  yet  her  eyes  never  seemed  dimmed  by  weeping,  nor  did 
her  pale  cheeks  bear  any  trace  of  tears.  This  faculty  of  sub- 
duing the  external  signs  of  sorrow  alarmed  Rose.  It  revealed 
a  strength  of  character  she  had  not  suspected,  but  it  also  made 
her  fear  that  what  she  had  considered  as  a  mere  girlish  passion, 
was  one  of  those  deeper  feelings  whose  ill-repressed  fever  wastes 
the  pure  freshness  of  youth  and  poisons  the  source  of  a  whole 
existence.  On  the  third  day  she  asked  Nathalie  when  she 
intended  to  give  Madame  Marceau  her  final  answer. 

''  When  the  ten  days  I  asked  for  are  elapsed,"  briefly  replied 
Nathalie,  evidently  not  disposed  to  continue  the  conversation 
on  this  subject. 

This  proud  and  obstinate  silence  ended  by  alarming  Rose. 
She  resolved  to  break  through  it. 

"  Nathalie,"  said  she  to  her  one  morning,  "  that  pride  of 
yours  will  kill  you.  You  sufier,  but  are  too  haughty  to  com- 
plain." 

"  Be  easy,"  returned  Nathalie,  with  a  gesture  not  free  from 
disdain,  ''  and  fear  not  for  my  health.  Take  my  word  for  it, 
Rose,  it  is  only  the  mentally  and  physically  weak  some  sorrowi 
15* 


346  NATHALIE. 

kill.     Those  who  have  strength  to  feel,  have  strength  to  endurs 
to  suffer,  and  live  on." 

"  But  why  be  so  proud  ?"  urged  Kose. 

"  I  am  not  proud,"  calmly  replied  her  sister,  '•  but  I  am  no 
love-sick  maiden.  I  am  simply  an  unloved  woman  who  has  no 
right  to  complain,  who  will  endure  silently,  wrap  courage  like 
a  mantle  around  her,  and  say,  '  none  shall  see  that  I  sorrow.'  " 

"  But  I  see  it,"  returned  Rose,  "  you  have  lifted  the  veil 
from  your  heart  and  cannot  drop  it  again ;  and  if  you  had 
never  raised  that  veil,  I  should  not  the  less  have  seen  through 
it.  Look  at  that  book  which,  to  please  me,  you  have  promised 
to  read  ;  it  is  still  turned  down  at  the  same  page  ;  look  at  that 
task  which  you  took  in  hand  before  yesterday ;  it  is  not  half 
done  ;  yet  you  are  of  an  active  disposition,  and  were  fond  of 
reading  once." 

"  Yes,  once.  Rose." 

"Why  not  now?" 

"  Because  books,  ay  even  the  most  cscellent,  could  not  now 
take  me  out  of  myself  or  be  my  spirit's  home.  I  have  reached 
that  time  of  life  when  dreams  end  and  reality  opens ;  when  the 
mind  grows  weary  of  always  imagining,  and  wishes  to  live  for 
truth.  I  know  you  think  me  too  fond  of  day-dreams  and  ro- 
mances :  you  would  not  think  so  could  you  know  how  I  long, 
how  I  thirst  for  truth  and  reality." 

She  spoke  in  a  feverish  tone,  and  pressed  her  hand  to  her 
forehead.  Rose  bent  over  her,  and  laid  her  hand  on  Nathalie's 
shoulder. 

"  You  long  for  truth,"  said  she,  "  turn  towards  divine 
truths." 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Nathalie  at  length  looked  up 
into  her  sister's  face,  now  calmly  bending  over  her  ;  the  young 
girl's  eyes  were  tearless,  but  deeply  mournful. 

"  Rose,"  she  very  sadly  replied,  "  I  know  what  you  mean, 
even  as  you  knew  what  I  meant.  But  the  truth  for  which  I 
long  is  not,  alas,  the  truth  towards  which  you  bid  me  turn. 
What  will  you  think  of  me  when  I  tell  you  that  my  soul,  my 
heart,  my  very  flesh  cleave  to  this  earth  ;  that,  do  what  I  will, 
I  cannot  tear  them  away.  I  know  the  divine  Master  to  whose 
feet  you  would  lead  me  ;  I  have  heard  him  saying  '  Come  unto 
me  all  ye  that  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.'  I 
have  struggled  against  my  yearning  heart  and  its  unavailing 
wishes  ;  I  have  raised  my  soul  in  prayer,  and  besought  for  aid 
throughout  the  silent  night,  and  my  burden  has  not  been  taken 
from  me,  and  I  have  never  won  repose." 


NATHALIE.  34? 

'•  Is  there  no  comfort  in  Christian  resignation  :  in  saying 
this  is  the  will  of  God?" 

Rose  spoke  with  serious  gentleness ;  but  Nathalie  smiled 
somewhat  bitterly. 

''  There  are  different  natures,"  she  said,  at  length  ;  "  some 
are  submissive,  like  yours,  Eose  ;  but  mine  is  not,  and  has 
never  been.  When  did  I  bear  sorrow  patiently?  I  am  young, 
impulsive,  and  energetic  ;  life  now  flows  in  me  in  its  fullest 
and  strongest  tide,  and  that  is  why  I  suffer  keenly.  If  I  were 
weak  or  passive,  I  should  either  die  or  forget ;  the  latter  most 
probably  :  but  being  as  I  am,  I  cannot  do  either.  I  must  live, 
remember,  and  suffer  still ;  for  I  am  of  those  rebellious  spirits 
who  think  they  were  made  for  happiness." 

"  Do  you  doubt  the  goodness  of  God,  the  justice  of  his  pro- 
vidence ?"  gravely  asked  Rose. 

"  No,  that  would  be  impious  and  foolish ;  but  to  acknow- 
ledge that  God  is  good,  that  his  providence  is  just,  does  not 
remove  the  bitterness  of  my  sorrow.  Religion  and  reason  both 
tell  me  '  suffer  patiently  ;'  but  there  is  a  voice  in  my  heart 
which  revolts  against  this,  which  cries  out  incessantly  :  '  Why, 
oh  !    why  must  I  suffer  V  " 

"  Oh  !  Nathalie,''  very  sorrowfully  said  her  sister  ;  '•  you 
have  dreamed  too  much,  you  have  read  too  many  of  those  books 
which  waste  for  ever  the  divine  freshness  of  the  heart." 

Nathalie  shook  her  head,  and  smiled. 

"  How  strangely  you  talk,"  she  replied,  "  one  might  think 
love  had  been  invented  by  novels  and  novelists.  Would  it  not 
exist  without  them?  Is  it  not  something  more  than  a  human 
creation  ?  Oh,  Rose  !  that  you,  in  many  things  so  wise,  should 
yet  not  see  that  the  heart  is,  and  ever  must  be,  its  own  most 
impassioned  and  most  dangerous  romance — that  love  is  no 
weakness,  but  a  most  divine  thing!" 

"  Idolater  !  Idolater  !"  sadly  murmured  Rose. 

"  I  am  no  idolater :  love  is  divine." 

"  But,  Nathalie,  is  not  passion,  which  is  but  the  fever  of 
love,  too  often  confounded  with  love  itself;  and  what  is  the 
purest  affection  but  the  dream  of  youth's  brief  years  ?" 

"  Then  what  was  the  heart  given  us  for,  Rose?" 

"  Not  for  an  idol.  Shall  we  for  ever  hear  of  the  heart  and 
hear  so  little  of  the  soul  ?  It  is  beautiful  to  see  two  human 
beings  loving  one  another  with  truth  and  tenderness  ;  but  when 
I  behold  idolaters  kneeling  to  clay  as  fragile  as  their  own,  I 
turn  away  my  glance  with  sorrow,  and  wish  them  a  purer  wor- 
ship." 


S48  n-atiialit:. 

"  But  you  would  make  life  too  cold,"  replied  Nathalie.  •'  1 
have  suffered  from  a  mind  too  restless,  from  a  heart  too  easer 
in  its  longings,  yet  I  would  not  change  my  sorrows  for  so  placid 
and  passionless  an  existence  as  that  you  would  have  us  lead." 

"And  is  there  then  no  deep  feeling,  save  one?"  asked  Rose, 
whilst  a  faint  tinge  of  color  rose  to  her  pale  cheek  ;  '•  is  there 
no  such  feeling  as  duty,  no  such  passion  as  the  passion  of  its 
accomplishment  ?" 

"  Oh,  Rose  !"  said  Nathalie,  looking  up  into  her  sister's 
face,  "  you  are  perfect ;  but  to  bo  as  you  are,  bearing  all,  feel- 
ing nothing,  would  be  a  living  death  to  me ;  I  can  suffer,  if  it 
needs  must  be  so,  but  at  least  let  me  live.  Believe  me,  we  are 
not  calm ;  calmness  is  not  human  ;  life  is  a  running  stream, 
forced  repose  breeds  stagnation.  Hide  it  as  we  will,  we  carry 
within  us  the  germ  of  restless  longings ;  a  fever  of  the  heart 
which  nothing  can  satiate  or  appease.  Vague  desires  for  some 
undefined  good  haunt  even  our  happiest  moments.  If  there 
are  some  who  have  never  felt  this,  over  whose  joy  a  shade  of 
sadness  has  never  come,  even  in  its  very  fulness  ;  who  have 
endured  sorrow  without  the  bitterness  of  one  moment's  despair, 
may  I  never  meet  them  ;  they  are  not  human, — they  have  no 
heart." 

She  spoke  with  passionate  eagerness. 

"  Oh,  child  !"  sorrowfully  said  her  sister,  "what  p,  fever 
you  would  make  of  life  ;  life  is  a  running  stream  indeed,  but 
one  that  bears  us  to  the  divine  repose  of  the  grave." 

"  The  repose  of  the  grave  !"  echoed  Nathalie  ;  "  do  you  then 
believe  in  that  unnatural  calm,  which  is  all  we  actually  know 
of  death  ?  I  do  not,  Rose,  I  do  not.  No,  I  do  not  think  that 
life's  fitful  story  ends  with  six  feet  of  earth,  and  that  beneath 
that  coli  stone,  the  heart  lies  still.  There  are,  there  must  be 
feelings  and  passions  that  conquer  even  death,  and  snatch  its 
triumph  from  the  grave.  Who  has  come  back  to  tell  us  how 
much  exactly  it  is  that  dies,  how  much  that  lives  ?  The  toul, 
you  will  say  !  I  ask  who  told  you  that  the  heart  would  pefish  ? 
It  cannot  be  merely  the  principle  of  life  that  survives  ;  it  must 
be  life  itself.  Rose,  life  exalted,  purified  if  you  will ;  but  life 
with  the  same  feelings  and  burning  thoughts  that  formed  a 
part  of  its  being  here  below." 

"  xYnd  you  thus  feed  yourself  with  thoughts  of  the  eternity 
of  your  feelings,"  sorrowfully  leplied  Rose;  "  and  you  think 
that  your  love,  that  perishable  dream,  endures  for  ever.  Be- 
lieve me — and  yet  no,  you  will  not  believe  me — it  lasts  but  a 
day." 


nATHALIB.  345 

"  You  say  this  to  comfort  rne,"  said  Nathalie,  Jooking  tip ; 
•'strange  comfort !  Do  not  tell  me  that  I  shall  ever  be  cured, 
do  not  -weaken  my  faith  in  the  truth  of  what  I  feel.  I  know 
sorrow  is  painful,  but  to  think  that  our  sorrow,  though  now  so 
deep,  shall  pass  away,  that  a  time  will  come  when  we  shall 
smile  at  the  past,  may  be  true,  but  it  is  too  bitter.  Are  we  so 
weak,  that  our  griefs  are  of  as  frail  and  perishable  a  nature  as 
our  being?  I  will  not  believe  it;  I  will  have  faith  in  the 
eternity  of  sorrow,  that  I  may  have  faith  in  the  eternity  of  its 
source ;  I  will  believe  that  what  loves  and  suffers  in  me  is  not 
the  perishable  clay,  but  the  immortal  spirit." 

'•  Idolater,  idolater,"  again  murmured  Rose,  '•  do  you  thinK 
I  do  not  see  how  all  your  thoughts  are  with  him  ?" 

The  head  of  Nathalie  drooped,  and  her  cheeks  flushed. 

"  You  see  much,  Rose,"  she  replied,  in  a  low  tone,  "  but 
not  all ;  you  do  not,  cannot  know  the  pictures  that  haunt  me. 
When  I  close  my  eyes  thus,  with  my  brow  leaning  on  my  hand, 
visions  are  before  me.  I  see  myself  sitting  at  noon  in  the 
lime-tree  avenue ;  the  shade  is  so  thick  that  no  ray  of  sun  can 
pierce  it ;  the  whole  avenue  is  filled  with  a  cool,  green  light, 
which  makes  the  sunny  landscape  beyond  look  like  one  long 
line  of  golden  and  dazzling  light  passing  behind  the  trunks  of 
the  lime-trees  Why,  will  you  say,  do  I  remember  this  1  be- 
cause as  I  sit  there  reading  he  has  passed  by ;  he  has  not 
stopped  to  speak ;  I  have  not  raised  my  eyes  from  the  book, 
yet  the  memory  of  that  moment  lives  in  me  still.  And  it  is 
so  with  all  in  which  he  ever  had  a  part.  I  remember  every  word 
of  our  first  interview ;  every  incident  of  that  first  evening  in 
the  drawing-room,  when  the  regular  fall  of  his  footsteps  on  the 
floor  blended  with  the  sound  of  the  wind  and  rain  without,  and 
I  secretly  wondered  what  sort  of  a  man  he  was.  I  never 
knew  until  n©w  what  memory  really  is ;  for  it  is  thus  with  me 
all  day  long,  and  all  through  the  watches  of  the  night.  I  am 
ever  haunted  by  pictures  of  the  past,  by  looks,  smiles,  and 
kind  words,  that  shall  never  return  for  me.  I  see  fireside 
scenes  at  twilight  time,  ere  the  lamp  is  lit,  and  when  the  rud- 
dy light  falls  on  the  hearth ;  garden  scenes,  with  all  the 
warmth,  the  brightness  of  summer's  noon-day.  have  come  back ; 
and  60  strong  and  vivid  is  the  impression  thus  received,  thai 
when  I  look  up,  when  1  see  this  cold  room,  so  chill  and  dreary, 
with  nothing  but  the  monotonous  ticking  of  the  clock  to  break 
on  its  silence,  I  often  ask  myself  is  this  the  dream?  was  that 
Che  reality  ?" 


NATHALIK. 


Rose  made  no  reply ;  the  conversation  dropped,  and  was 
not  renewed. 

On  the  eve  of  that  tenth  day  which  was  to  be  that  of 
Nathalie's  final  answer,  Amanda  very  unexpectedly  called. 
Madame  Marceau,  she  said,  was  much  worse,  and  wished  to  see 
mademoiselle  immediately.  Indeed,  the  femme-de-cliambre 
hinted  pretty  clearly  that  her  mistress,  who  now  kept  her 
room,  was  well  nigh  in  a  dying  condition.  Nathalie  felt  infi- 
nitely shocked,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  comply  with  the  request. 
At  first  she  was  somewhat  disturbed  by  the  thought  of  meeting 
either  Monsieur  de  Sainville  or  his  nephew,  but  on  their  way 
to  the  r.haleau,  Amanda  informed  her  that  both  were  away. 

"  What !  whilst  Madame  Marceau  is  so  ill  ?"  exclaimed 
Nathalie,  with  much  surprise. 

"  Yes,  is  it  not  extraordinary !"  exclaimed  Amaida,  with  a 
vivacity  which  showed  that  her  own  curiosity  was  roused,  "  but 
it  was  madame's  wish,  quite  her  wish  ;  this  morning  she  sent 
Monsieur  Charles  away,  and  this  afternoon  as  I  was  in  her 
room,  she  did  not  give  monsieur  any  peace  until  he  had  pro- 
mised to  go,  and,  in  spite  of  the  storm  which  is  threatening,  I 
saw  him  ride  away  as  I  came  out." 

Nathalie  made  no  reply;  she  began  to  understand  why 
Madame  Marceau  had  sent  away  her  son  and  her  brother,  and 
this  made  her  feel  anxious  respecting  the  result  of  their  inter- 
view. If  she  suppressed  all  resentment  of  the  past,  she  could 
not,  however,  forget  that  she  who  now  sent  for  her,  had  been 
the  cause  of  all  her  woe.  Absorbed  by  these  reflections,  she 
silently  proceeded  up  the  road  leading  from  the  little  town  to 
the  chateau.  It  was  a  gloomy  evening,  with  a  dark  threaten- 
ing sky  lowering  over  the  whole  of  the  surrounding  landscape. 
Low  thunder  muttered  in  the  distance ;  not  a  breath  of  air 
stirred  the  leaves  or  branches  of  the  trees  which  shaded  the 
road  on  either  side ;  all  nature  had  that  breathless  stillness 
,  which  forebodes  the  coming  of  the  storm. 

Immediately  on  arriving,  Nathalie  was  ushered  into  the 
bed-room  of  Madame  Marceau.  It  was  almost  dark ;  the  cur- 
tains carefully  excluded  every  lingering  ray  of  daylight ;  a 
pale  wax-light  burned  on  a  low  table  at  the  further  end  of  the 
room.  At  first  all  seemed  gloom  to  Nathalie's  sight,  but  as 
her  eye  became  accustomed  to  the  doubtful  light  of  the  apart- 
ment, she  gradually  discerned  from  behind  the  sombre  damask 
curtains  of  the  bed,  the  pale  face  of  Madame  Marceau.  It 
was  not  a  week  since  she  had  left,  yet  was  she  struck  with  the 


NATHALIE.  351 

gkistly  cliange  a  few  days  had  already  made.  "  She  is  iudeed 
dying,"  thought  Nathalie,  as  she  hesitatingly  came  forward. 

'•  Oh  !  it  ia  you  !"  feverishly  exclaimed  Madame  Marceau, 
attempting  to  raise  herself  up,  but  failing  in  the  effort:  the 
nurse  had  to  help  her.  She  accepted  her  aid  with  evident 
impatience,  and  without  thanks,  briefly  said,  "  leave  us." 

They  remained  alone.  Nathalie  had  not  yet  spoken.  The 
sight  of  Madame  Marceau  recalled  too  vividly  all  that  had 
passed.  At  she  sat  there  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  she  felt  that 
she  gazed  on  the  same  pitiless  face  which  had  sealed  her  des- 
tiny. To  resent  the  ill  worked  by  one  now  so  near  the  end  of 
all  earthly  good  or  evil  seemed  cruel ;  but  the  wound  still  bled 
inwardly,  and  not  to  feel  it  was  not  in  her  power, 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  said  the  lady,  after  a  brief  si- 
lence, "  may  I  know  your  final  decision  ;  will  you  or  will  you 
not  marry  my  son  ?" 

"  No,  madame,  I  will  not,"  replied  Nathalie,  in  a  low  and 
deliberate  tone. 

"  You  will  not,"  bitterly  echoed  Madame  Marceau  ;  "  and 
it  required  ten  days  to  come  to  this  decision  !" 

Nathalie  did  not  answer.  Her  conscience  told  her  that  her 
conduct  had  not  been  quite  justifiable,  and  she  neither  sought 
nor  wished  to  excuse  it. 

"  Well !"  sharply  exclaimed  the  lady,  "  what  else  have  you 
to  say?" 

"  Nothing  else,  madame." 

"  So  you  think  to  insult  us  with  impunity  ;  presumptuous 
girl?" 

A  frown  had  gathered  over  her  brow;  but  Nathalie  met 
her  look  steadily. 

'•  To  decline  an  affection  I  never  sought  is  not  insult,"  she 
eery  firmly  replied. 

"  Oh  !  Nathalie,  Nathalie !"  bitterly  exclaimed  the  lady, 
''  insult  would  be  nothing ;  it  is  wrong,  actual  wrong,  that  you 
have  worked  to  me  and  mine.  You  have  been  the  wreck  of  all 
my  hopes  for  the  future  ;  all.  I  had  bent  my  mind  on  a  rich 
and  brilliant  marriage  for  Charles  ;  he  would  have  agreed,  but 
for  his  absurd  passion  for  you." 

"  Since  that  absurd  passion  is  hopeless.  Monsieur  Marceau 
will  now  enter  into  your  views,"  coldly  said  Nathalie. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  lady,  with  increased  bitterness,  '•  ha 
will ;  but  what  woman  will  be  flattered  at  the  prospect  of 
marrying  a  man  you  have  refused  ?" 


852  NATHALIE 

Nathalie  colored,  but  she  suppressed  Ler  indignant  anger 
and  merely  said  : — 

'•  This  fear  is  one  you  need  not  have,  madame ;  no  one 
shall  know  from  me  that  I  ever  had  the  opportunity  of  giving 
any  such  refusal." 

"  But  it  will  be  suspected  and  discovered  ultimately.  It 
will  be  reported  that  you  spent  a  whole  winter  here,  that  you 
left  when  my  son  came  back,  and  left  of  your  own  accord ! 
At  first  it  will  only  be  whispered,  then  rumored,  and  known 
at  length  all  through  Sainville,  all  over  the  province ;  such 
news  travels  fast." 

"  It  is  my  intention  to  leave  both  Sainville  and  Normandy 
speedily,"  Nathalie  calmly  replied  ;  "  when  I  am  gone,  the  mat- 
ter will  soon  be  forgotten." 

"  Leave  !"  joyfully  exclaimed  Madame  Marceau;  "  but  no," 
she  added  with  sudden  doubt,  "you  do  not  mean  it  sincerely." 

"  And  why  not,  madame  1"  gravely  asked  Nathalie. 

"  Then  leave  now.  if  you  are  indeed  sincere,"  urged  Ma- 
dame Marceau,  with  a  fixed  glance. 

'•  I  shall  do  so  when  means  and  a  fit  opportunity  offer,'^  was 
the  calm  reply. 

"  I  will  give  you  the  means  and  afi'ord  you  the  opj^ortuni- 
ty,"  eagerly  said  Madame  Marceau. 

"  You,  madame?"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  with  much  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  in  a  brief  and  feverish  tone;  "  I  had  al- 
ready thought  of  this  :  I  foresaw  your  refusal :  I  also  foresaw 
that  Sainville  and  Normandy  would  become  disagreeable  to 
you  :  I  settled  it  all  beforehand.  The  sooner  you  leave  the 
better,  of  course;  do  not  look  so  astonished  !  I  tell  you,  you 
can  leave  this  very  evening  if  you  like  ;  that  is  to  say,  if  you 
are  sincere." 

She  paused,  out  of  breath  at  the  rapidity  with  which  she 
had  spoken,  but  her  glittering  eyes  remained  fixed  on  the  as- 
tonished countenance  of  the  young  girl. 

"  And  if  I  were  to  leave,"  said  Nathalie,  after  a  pause, 
"  where  should  I  go  to  V 

'•  To  the  south  ;  you  are  from  the  south  :  you  must  like  the 
south :  it  is  much  more  beautiful  than  this  cold  Normandy  ol 
ours.  Besides,  I  have  a  friend  in  the  south,  a  lady  to  whom  1 
have  already  written  about  you,  who  wants  a  companion,  who 
will  love  you,  and  whom  you  cannot  fail  to  like." 

Seeing  how  far  Madame  Marceau's  plans  had  extended, 
Nathalie  now  thought  fit  to  check  this. 


riATHALlE.  353 

"I  thank  you,  madaine,  for  your  kindness  and  foresight," 
slie  said,  very  coldly,  "  but  I  cannot  agree  to  this." 

Madame  Marceau  bit  her  lip. 

"  Why  so  ?"  she  asked. 

'•  Because  I  will  never  again  enter  any  family  as  compaii' 
ion." 

"Oh!  there  is  no  family  there;  my  friend  has  neither 
brother  nor  son ;"  said  Madame  Marceau,  now  speaking  with 
unrestrained  bitterness. 

Nathalie  colored  deeply,  but  forbore  to  reply. 

"  Well,  do  you  consent  or  decline  ?"  resumed  the  sick  lady. 

"  I  decline." 

Well  as  she  habitually  controlled  the  workings  of  her  fea- 
tures, Madame  Marceau  coixld  not  now  conceal  the  bitter  dis- 
appointment she  experienced. 

"  Then  you  were  not  sincere,"  she  exclaimed,  "  and  you 
only  spoke  of  leaving,  in  order  to  get  all  this  out  of  me." 

"  I  had  no  such  intention,"  replied  Nathalie,  a  little  indig- 
nantly, "  and  if  I  spoke  of  leaving,  it  is  because  it  is  my  firm, 
irrevocable  intention  to  leave." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  with  a  sorrowful  decision,  that 
forbade  Madame  Marceau  to  doubt  their  truth.  She  seemed 
to  reflect,  then  said  suddenly : — 

"  I  believe  you  are  sincere,  and  therefore  I  feel  you  cannot 
decline  what  I  am  going  to  propose :  namely,  to  leave  Sain- 
ville,  settle  where  you  like,  and  receive  in  exchange  for  this 
compliance  a  yearly  settlement  from  me.  Mind,  I  propose  this 
for  my  own  advantage,  not  for  yours  :  have  no  scruples  of  deli- 
cacy, but  coDiply  from  a  sense  of  honor,  of  reparation  due  for 
the  mischief  you  have  involuntarily  caused.  If  you  comply, 
leave  Sainville,  and  hold  no  communication  with  it,  reveal  your 
abode  to  none,  or  at  least  bind  your  sister — she  is  religious — 
to  a  promise  of  secresy.  There  is  yet  hope  that  this  deplorable 
affair  may  either  remain  unknown  or  at  least  be  speedily  for- 
gotten." 

She  spoke  with  feverish  earnestness  ;  Nathalie  heard  her 
with  increasing  astonishment.  After  a  brief  silence,  during 
which  the  burning  look  of  the  sick  woman  never  once  left  her, 
she  replied : — 

"  Madame,  this  cannot  be  !" 

"  You  refuse  1  You  actually  refuse  ?"  indignantly  exclaim- 
ed the  lady. 

''  Yea,  madame,  I  indeed  refuse." 


554  NATHALIE. 

•'■  And  why  so  ?  pray,  why  so  ?" 

"  Because  I  cannot  accept " 

"  Have  I  not  told  you  it  was  to  oblige  me  ?" 

"  Madame,  I  deeply  regret  it ;  but  it  is  impossible  !" 

"  You  refuse  ?" 

"  I  am  extremely  sorry " 

"  Do  you  or  do  you  not  accept  V  Her  voice  rose,  her  fea 
tures  became  more  dark  and  angry. 

'■'•  I  do  not,"  calmly  answered  Nathalie. 

"  But  you  shall  not  refuse,"  passionately  cried  the  lady. 
'•  I  say  you  shall  not ;  I  say  you  must  go,  and  no  one  shall 
know  where  you  go.  I  am  not  rich,  but  I  will  settle  on  you 
all  I  have  irrevocably,  if  you  will  only  pledge  yourself  to  go." 

Nathalie  could  not  repress  a  feeling  of  pity. 

"  Madame,"  she  gently  said,  "  I  cannot,  indeed,  comply  with 
your  request;  yet  I  promise  you  to  leave  Sainville  speedily,  and 
I  conjure  you  to  think  of  other  things  in  this  solemn  moment." 

"So  you  think  I  am  dying,  do  you?"  replied  Madame 
Marceau,  with  a  bitter  laugh ;  "  and  you  are  kind  enough  to 
tell  me  so  !  But  do  you  think,"  she  added,  with  a  withering 
look,  "  that  I  cannot  guess  the  secret  of  your  obstinate  re- 
sistance? I  have  watched  you  day  by  day;  watched  you  when 
you  suspected  it  least.  Foolish  girl !  did  you  think  to  deceive 
a  woman,  and  that  woman  a  mother?  Yes,  I  know  you,"  she 
continued,  as  Nathalie's  sudden  pallor  showed  her  that  she  had 
struck  home,  '•  I  know  your  hopes  and  ambitious  desires  ;  but 
never,  save  as  my  son's  wife,  shall  you  become  mistress  of 
Sainville." 

'•  And  never  thus,"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  suddenly  roused  by 
this  taunt ;  "  never  thus,  madame  !" 

"  You  love  my  brother  !  deny  it  if  you  can,  if  you  dare  ! 
you  love  him !" 

A  sudden  blush  overspread  Nathalie's  face,  but  rising  from 
her  seat,  she  said  with  a  firm  look : 

"  I  feel  no  shame  ;  I  deny  nothing." 

"  Forward  girl!"  bitterly  continued  Madame  Marceau,  "you 
confess  it ;  you  confess  that  you  love  a  man  who  might  be  your 
father,  who  cares  not,  who  has  never  cared  for  you  !" 

"  Nay,  who  has  loved  me ;  who,  in  spite  of  himself,  loves 
me  still,"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  carried  away  by  an  irresistible 
impulse,  and  speaking  with  all  the  passionate  fervor  of  the 
heart's  ardent  faith. 

Madame  Marceau  looked  at  her  like  one  stupefied. 


NATHALIE.  555 

"  You  say  so,  you  dare  to  say  so,"  she  at  length  observed  ; 
"  my  brother  love  .you — my  brother  marry  you  ?  Well.  I  shall 
ask  hira." 

"  Madame,  you  cannot  mean  it  ?"  cried  Nathalie,  with  sud' 
den  terror. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  do  mean  it." 

"  No,  you  cannot  be  so  cruel,  so  treacherous,"  exclaimed 
Nathalie,  with  trembling  agitation. 

"  Comply  with  my  request  and  I  am  silent,"  suddenly  re- 
joined the  lady. 

"  Never,"  replied  Nathalie,  with  much  energy,  "  never  , — 
say,  repeat  what  you  will,  I  care  not ;  I  stand  strong  and  se- 
cure in  the  sense  of  my  own  purity.  I  spoke  in  a  moment  of 
folly,  but  I  said  the  truth :  you  know  it ;  he  knows  it  better 
still.  If  he  judges  me  ill,  God  forgive  him  ;  my  conscience 
acquits  me." 

The  head  of  Madame  Marceau  sank  back  on  her  pillow ; 
she  was  very  pale ;  her  lips  quivered ;  her  hands  trembled. 
Nathalie,  much  alarmed,  rang  the  bell ;  the  nurse  entered,  gave 
a  rapid  glance  to  the  patient,  then  turned  to  Nathalie. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  to  her  1"  she  exclaimed,  almost 
angrily. 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Nathalie,  in  a  faltering  tone. 

The  woman  no  longer  heeded  her :  she  was  seeking  to  re- 
store Madame  Marceau,  who  had  fainted  away ;  in  a  few 
minutes  she  succeeded.  Nathalie,  guessing  her  aspect  would 
do  the  patient  little  good,  had  retired  to  a  dark  and  distant 
part  of  the  room. 

"  I  feel  better  now,"  said  Madame  Marceau,  calmly  enough, 
in  reply  to  an  inquiry  of  the  nurse ;  "  but  what  step  is  that  on 
the  staircase?"  she  uneasily  added.  The  door  opened  as  she 
spoke,  and  Monsieur  de  Sainville  entered. 

Nathalie  had  half-prepared  herself  for  this  moment.  She 
had  thought  that  if  she  met  Monsieur  de  Sainville  by  the  bed- 
side of  his  dying  sister,  she  could  see  him  with  calmness  and 
unconcern,  and  now  she  found  that  it  was  not  so,  that  what  the 
brain  wills  the  heart  may  not  always  obey,  that  her  cheek 
deepened  in  color,  and  that  her  whole  frame  trembled  as  though 
mortality  did  not  exist,  and  threw  not  its  shadow  over  the 
longest  and  most  enduring  love. 

Without  seeing  her,  he  advanced  towards  his  sister.  In 
spite  of  her  weakness,  Madame  Marceau  half  raised  herself  up 
to  exclaim  : 


356  NATHALIE. 

"  Arniand,   Armand  !   is   that   you .      Why  did    you  co/iie 

back?" 

"  I  thought  it  best  with  a  storm  threatening,  and  you  so 

unwell." 

Madame  Marceau  sank  baok  on  her  pillow. 

"  It  is  a  fatality,"  she  muttered,  with  something  like  de- 
spair ;  "  do  what  I  will,  it  still  ends  thus,  and  fools  say  there  is 
no  destiny." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Rosalie  ?"  kindly  asked  her  brother ; 
"  why  does  my  return  trouble  you  thus?" 

She  made  no  reply  ;  she  was  gradually  resuming  her  self- 
possession,  and  turning  towards  the  obscure  spot  of  the  room 
where  Nathalie  still  stood,  she  calmly  said : 

"  Petite,  I  will  not  detain  you  any  longer ;  there  is  a  storm 
threatening :  your  poor  sister  would  feel  uneasy.     Good  bye." 

For  one  moment  Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  discom- 
posed, as  his  glance  suddenly  fell  on  Nathalie,  who  came  for- 
ward without  looking  at  him,  but  he  soon  checked  the  mo- 
mentary feeling,  and  quietly  observed : 

«  The  storm  has  come,  Rosalie,  and  it  was  lest  yon  should 
feel  uneasy  that  I  came  up." 

A  lightning  flash  quickly  followed  by  a  loud  peal  of  thun- 
der, confirmed  the  assertion. 

Madame  Marceau  glanced  from  her  brother,  who  had  taken 
a  seat  at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  to  Nathalie,  who  stood  near  her 
head.     Their  looks  were  averted  :  were  their  hearts  asunder? 

"  It  is  a  fatality  !"  she  muttered  again. 

She  said  no  more,  she  looked  pale,  faint,  and  exhausted. 
Nathalie  remained  in  the  same  attitude  for  a  few  minutes,  then 
left  the  room.  On  the  landing  she  met  the  doctor,  whc  entered 
the  sick  room  while  she  opened  the  door  of  the  salon.  A  small 
lamp  lurned  on  the  table;  but  no  one  was  there;  yot  a  seat 
and  a.book  showed  it  had  recently  been  occupied;  by  Monsieur 
de  Saiuvrille,  most  probably.  Nathalie  turned  away,  troubled 
at  heart,  and  walked  to  one  of  the  windows ;  she  drew  back 
the  curtain  and  looked  with  unquailing  glance  on  the  storm, 
now  at  the  height  of  its  wrath  The  sky  was  of  a  deadly  dark- 
ness, ever  and  anon  traversed  by  lurid  lightning:  the  avenue^ 
the  road,  the  landscape  beyond  appeared  illumed  for  a  second; 
then  suddenly  vanished  into  deeper  gloom,  whilst  the  full  thun* 
dor  seemed  to  shake  the  house  to  its  very  foundations. 

Half  an  hour  had  thus  elapsed  when  Amanda  came  in 
8ho  was  weeping  and  sank  down  in  a  seat. 


XATIIAI.IE.  337 

'•  Good  God  !''  cried  Nathalie,  turning  very  pale,  "wbcit 
is  it?" 

"  My  dear  mistress  !"  exclaimed  Amanda. 

"  "Well !"  breathlessly  cried  the  youDg  girl. 

"  Alas  !  the  doctor  scarcely  hopes  she  will  outlive  this  dread- 
ful night ;  I  thouHit  I  would  come  and  tell  mademoiselle,  whoso 
deep  sensibility  I  know  so  well.  I  must  now  go  and  prepare 
Madame  la  Chanoinesse,  who  will  soon  be  my  only  mistress, — 
unless,  indeed,  monsieur  or  his  nephew  should  marry ;  the  for- 
mer is  much  the  more  likely  of  the  two,  for  Monsieur  Charles 
is  rather  young.  As  to  monsieur  having  taken  any  resolve  or 
pow,  I  think,  for  my  part,  that  those  vows  were  made  to  be 
broken,  and  that  though  gentlemen  may  be  worn  en -haters,  yet 
(vhen  it  comes  to  the  point,  they  generally  find  there  is  no  de- 
cent living  without  women  ;  and  indeed  since  every  thing  is  for 
the  best " 

A  peal  of  thunder  interrupted  what  she  was  going  to  add. 
She  trembled  and  turned  pale. 

"  Good  heavens  !"  she  cried,  '•  is  not  this  awful?" 

"  I  do  not  mind  the  storm,"  said  Nathalie,  '•  but  I  remem- 
ber that  Madame  de  Sainville  does ;  you  had  better  go  to  her." 

Amanda,  who  thought  a  rickety  turret  much  less  secure 
than  a  drawing-room,  inclosed  in  a  niass  of  solid  masonry, 
very  reluctantly  complied. 

Nathalie  once  more  remained  alone.  She  was  deeply  agi- 
tated. Her  old  fear  of  the  storm  had  vanished.  A  power 
mightier  far  than  that  of  lightning  or  tempest  was  now  be- 
neath that  roof ;  the  storm  without  would  pass  away  and  leave  a 
serener  sky :  the  power  within  would  not  depart  until  its  task 
were  done,  not  until  the  light  which  now  burned  so  feebly  were 
quenched  for  ever.  The  most  impressive  sermons  have  been 
preached  on  the  vanity  of  this  world,  and  all  it  contains,  but 
what  sermon  is  so  powerful  as  the  thought,  presence,  or  sight 
of  death  ?  All  that  Rose  had  ever  urged  to  her  in  her  mourn- 
ful wisdom  recurred  to  the  memory  of  the  young  girl.  What 
was  love,  when  life  was  so  brief?  Strange  as  it  seemed,  and 
as  it  must  ever  seem  when  the  tide  of  life  flows  full  within  us, 
she  too  would  die.  She  remembered  the  words  she  had 
heard  not  so  long  ago,  "  Fresh  and  fair  as  you  are  now,  you  too 
must  share  the  fate  of  earth's  most  glorious  and  most  lovely 
things ;  you  too  must  pass  away,  and  fade,  and  die."  But 
alas !  oven  now  as  then,  the  sense  of  the  words  seemed  to  fall 
heavily  on  her  car.  whilst  the  look,  the  tone,  with  which  tliey 


358  NATHALIE. 

had  been  uttered,  lived  once  more  within  her,  and  sent  their 
impassioned  thrill  through  her  beating  heart. 

Anxious  to  banish  these  thoughts,  she  looked  out  once 
more.  The  storm  had  ceased  ;  an  occasional  flash  of  pale  light 
cing  revealed  the  dark  depths  of  the  sky,  and  the  low  mut- 
tering thunder  was  still  heard  in  the  distance,  like  a  conquer- 
ed foe  sullenly  retiring.  Heavy  rain  had  succeeded  to  the 
Btorm  ;  it  poured  down  in  torrents  with  a  low  rushing  sound, 
that  seemed  to  Nathalie  like  the  distant  voice  of  that  dark 
flood,  whose  waves  must  bear  us  all  to  the  last  journey's  un 
known  bourne. 

A  strange  sense  of  awe  came  over  her.  Sorrow  she  could 
not  feel,  but  a  solemn  hush  fell  on  her  feelings :  she  felt  that 
death  was  in  the  house.  She  left  the  window  and  sat  in  the 
arm-chair,  the  same  where,  on  many  a  winter  evening,  she  had 
indulged  in  those  wild  reveries  which  were  not  of  the  imagi- 
nation alone,  but  of  the  far  wilder,  and  more  dangerous  ro- 
mance of  the  heart.  Thus  she  remained  for  several  hours. 
At  eleven  the  door  opened  and  the  doctor  entered ;  he  softly 
came  forward,  shook  his  head,  took  a  seat,  folded  his  hands, 
sighed,  and  looked  attentively  at  Nathalie.  He  was  a  short,  cor- 
pulent little  man,  with  a  good-humored  and  even  jocund  face, 
ill  adapted  to  express- gravity  or  sorrow.  Nathalie,  unable  to 
understand  the  meaning  of  his  presence,  looked  at  him  with 
surprise  and  alarm. 

"  Sir,"  she  said  at  length. 

"  Yes,"  he  interrupted ;  '■  very  sad,  very  ;  but  not  unex- 
pected, which  is  a  great  source  of  consolation.  I  foretold  it 
ten  days  ago." 

Nathalie  looked  at  him  again ;  he  shook  his  head  and 
closed  his  eyes.  She  turned  pale,  and  felt  so  faint,  that  she 
was  compelled  to  cling  to  the  arm  of  her  chair  for  support.  It 
was  all  over  then :  she  had  expected  this,  but  not  so  speedily. 
It  seemed  most  strange  that  the  being  with  whom  she  had 
spoken  but  a  few  hours  back,  should  now  be  nothing — so  far  aa 
this  world  was  concerned.  Was  this,  then,  the  result  of  all 
the  scheming  which  to  the  end  had  filled  that  worldly  heart  ? 

The  doctor,  perceiving  that  the  young  girl  looked  more 
shocked  than  grieved,  resumed  : — 

"  There  is  another  great  source  of  consolation  :  the  unhap- 
py lady  remained  wholly  unconscious  of  her  approaching  fate." 

"  Wholly  unconscious  !"  thought  Nathalie,  with  something 
Uke  contempt,  for,  apart  from  all  religious  feeling,  though  she 


c 


NATHALIE.  350 

was  bj  no  means  void  of  it,  she  thought  it  cowardly  thus 
to  die. 

And  yet  this  is  the  end  which  the  world  considers  fortu- 
nate !  Strange  good  fortune,  which  consists  in  being  cheated 
into  death.  There  must  truly  be  great,  nay,  awful  degrada- 
tion abroad,  when  this  cowardly  death  is  envied :  there  must 
be  a  singular  unconsciousness  of  the  rights  of  the  soul,  of  tho 
duties  of  life,  of  the  dignity  that  pertains  to  human  beings. 

"  Yes,  a  great  source  of  consolation,"  resumed  the  doctor  ; 
•  but,  as  I  said,  I  predicted  it ;  from  the  night  I  was  called 
up  suddenly,  I  knew,  and  told  Monsieur  de  Sainville  how  it 
would  be." 

Nathalie  looked  up ;  she  remembered  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville's  sadness  in  the  garden  at  night ;  this,  then,  explained  it. 

"  I  conclude  that  so  orderly  a  lady  left  all  her  aflairs  in  a 
proper  state,"  continued  the  doctor,  whom  few  things  annoyed 
80  much  as  a  patient  dying  with  affairs  unsettled.  '•  It  is 
certainly  a  great  source  of  consolation  that  her  brother  was 
here  to  see  that  all  was  right;  and  another  source  of  consola- 
tion, that  her  son  was  away,  since  his  feelings  were  spared  a 
painful  and  certainly  unnecessary  shock." 

Oh,  sorrow  !  chastener  and  purifier  of  the  heart,  you  too 
have  rights  unacknowledged  and  wrongfully  withheld  ;  for  do 
we  not  escape  from  you  as  from  a  foe  we  dare  not  brave,  nor 
even  attempt  to  subdue  ? 

A  good  deal  more  the  doctor  said,  but  he  at  length  per- 
ceived that  Nathalie  had  ceased  to  heed  him.  He  retired; 
again  she  remained  alone,  until  Amanda  came  to  ask  if  she 
would  not,  since  it  was  much  too  late  to  think  of  returning 
home,  take  some  rest  in  her  own  room.  When  the  young  girl 
inquired  after  the  Canoness,  she  was  told  that  Aunt  liade- 
gonde  knew  nothing  as  yet,  which  of  course  rendered  it  more 
advisable  that  they  should  not  meet  for  the  present. 

Nathalie  went  up  to  her  turret-chamber ;  how  little  sht 
had  thought  on  leaving  it,  ever  to  sleep  there  again.  She  re- 
membered Madame  Marceau's  exclamation  :  "  it  is  a  fatality," 
and  in  the  passing  superstition  of  her  heart,  she  asked  herself 
if  a  mysterious  destiny  did  not  indeed  draw  her  back  to  the 
abode  where  real  life  had  first  dawned  before  her. 

No  light  came  from  the  opposite  turret ;  yet  through  all  the 
awe  and  solemnity  of  the  hour,  the  young  girl  could  not  forget 
that  she  slept,  or  more  properly  rested,  beneath- the  same  roof 
with  Madame  Marceau's  brother. 


3130 


NATHALIE. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


The  death  of  her  uieec  greatly  affected  tlio  poor  Canoucss. 
As  she  knew  nothing  of  Nathalie's  motives  or  feelings,  she 
greatly  wondered  and  complained  when  the  young  girl  left  her 
on  the  following  day,  and  was  extremely  urgent  in  beseeching 
her  to  return  after  the  funeral.  With  this  request  Nathalie 
would  certainly  not  have  complied,  but  for  the  fact  that  both 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  and  his  nephew  wore  away  for  a  fort- 
night; such  being  the  case,  she  consented. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  appointed  for  her  return  to  Ma- 
dame Lavigne's,  E,ose,  after  leaving  her  aunt,  and  entering  her 
own  room,  found  Nathalie  sitting  there  alone. 

'•  I  did  not  know  you  were  come  back,"  she  said. 

Nathalie  did  not  reply,  but  looked  up  slowly:  something 
In  her  whole  aspect  struck  Rose  so  much,  that  she  suddenly 
stopped  short,  in  order  to  look  at  her  more  attentively.  The 
young  girl  seemed  to  have  been  preparing  to  undress,  for  her 
unbraided  hair  fell  in  thick  waves  around  her ;  but  she  had 
not  proceeded  further  in  her  task,  and  she  now  sat  back  in 
her  chair,  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  knees  ;  the  neglected 
wick  of  the  tallow  candle  burning  on  the  table  near  her, 
showed  that  she  had  long  been  there.  She  looked  up  at  her 
sister  with  an  abstracted  gaze. 

"  Yes,  I  am  come  back,"  she  slowly  replied,  and  again  re- 
lapsed into  her  reverie. 

Rose  gave  her  a  wondering  look,  but  busied  herself  about 
the  room.  Nathalie  did  not  move  ;  five  minutes  elapsed  ;  Rose 
looked  at  her  sister  repeatedly,  but  without  succeeding  in 
meeting  her  gaze,  which  was  fastened  on  the  floor.  Stopping 
phort  before  her,  she  at  length  said,  in  her  low,  grave  voice" 
"  Child,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Nathalie,  and  she  rose  quickly. 

But  laying  her  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  her  sister.  Rose 
calmly  continued  :  "  You  cannot  deceive  me,  what  is  it  V 

She  eyed  her  fixedly,  as  they  stood  side  by  side,  in  the 
centre  of  the  narrow  room.  The  eyelids  of  Nathalie  drooped, 
but  her  lips  parted, — not  with  a  smile,  for  it  was  scarcely  so  de- 
finite,— but  with  an  expression  that  conveyed  so  much ;  that 
told  so  plainly  the  pure  joy  of  a  pure  and  happy  heart,  that 
Rose  felt  confirmed. 


NATHALIE.  361 

"  Are  3' ou  glad,  and  -will  you  not  tell  me  wliy  ?"  she  asked, 
with  something  like  reproach. 

Nathalie  turned  quickly  towards  her,  and  by  an  instinctive 
impulse  pressed  her  lips  to  the  hand  that  rested  on  her  shoul- 
der,  but  she  did  not  speak.  After  waiting  for  a  while.  Rose 
made  a  motion  to  withdraw ;  her  sister  detained  her. 

'•  I  am  glad,  Rose,"  she  said  in  a  low  and  hesitating  tone, 
'  because  I  think,  indeed,  I  know,  that  he  has  not  ceased  to 
esteem  me." 

She  looked  up  to  see  how  Rose  would  receive  this ;  her 
sister  was  looking  at  her  somewhat  sadly. 

"  Poor  child  !"  said  she,  in  a  pitying  tone,  "  is  it  because 
that  harsh,  proud  man  has  not  been  quite  so  harsh,  quite  so 
proud,  that  when  I  came  in,  you  looked  so  happy  ?" 

She  sighed  as  she  spoke.  Nathalie  averted  her  face,  but 
even  through  the  falling  hair  that  partly  veiled  her  cheek. 
Rose  could  see  that  she  blushed  deeply.  She  bent  down  and 
fixed  her  calm,  penetrating  glance  so  that  it  met  the  young 
girl's  eyes,  but  though  Nathalie's  look  was  frank,  it  could  not 
always  be  easily  fathomed,  and  now  it  completely  baffled  the 
scrutiny  of  Rose. 

The  young  girl  probably  felt  this,  for,  without  shrinking 
from  her  sister's  glance,  she  smiled  a  little  archly. 

"  Have  you  any  objection  to  tell  me  what  has  happened 
since  we  met  ?"  asked  Rose. 

"  No,  Rose,  I  have  not ;"  yet  she  spoke  hesitatingly. 

Her  sister  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  signed  her 
to  take  a  place  near  her,  and  assumed  a  listening  attitude. 

"  It  is  a  long  story,"  said  Nathalie. 

"  Never  mind." 

"Listen  !  there  is  the  abbey  clock  striking  ten  ;  it  is  late." 

"  Not  too  late  to  hear  you." 

"  But  your  aunt  will  be  angry." 

"  We  can  talk  low." 

She  waited  ;  but  Nathalie  did  not  speak.  Rose  perceived 
it  would  be  necessary  to  question. 

"  Did  you  see  Monsieur  de  Sainville  1"  she  resumed. 

"  Yes,  I  saw  him  ;  both  he  and  his  nephew  returned  to-day, 
I  believe  they  had  not  long  been  in  the  house,  and  I  was  pre- 
paring to  go,  when  Amanda  came  to  ask  me  if  I  would  ob- 
ject meeting  them  in  the  library.  I  concluded  that  Charles 
Mareeau,  being  ignorant  of  my  definite  reply,  wished  to  hear 
it ;  but  why  his  uncle  should  have  any  thing  to  do  with  this, 

16 


362  NATHALIE. 

vexed  and  surprised  me.  Yet  not  seeming  to  wish  to  avoid  the 
interview,  I  complied.  They  were  both  in  the  library — both 
in  deep  mourning,  which  made  them  look  strange.  They  rose 
to  receive  me.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  did  not  sit  down  again. 
Charles  obsequiously  drew  a  chair  for  me.  I  sat  down.  I  felt 
very  faint  and  heartsick.  My  resolve  was  taken  ;  but  expla- 
nations  are  only  favorable  to  the  calm  and  the  self-possessed  ; 
taught  by  the  past,  I  feared.  There  was  a  pause.  Monsieur 
de  Sainville  was  the  first  to  speak ;  he  addressed  me  in  his 
'^oldest  and  gravest  tone,  and  apologized  for  his  presence. 

"  '  An  express  request  of  my  sister  on  the  last  evening  of 
her  life,'  said  he, — '  a  request  with  which  I  have  promised  to 
comply,  but  into  the  nature  of  which  it  is  needless  for  mc  to 
enter,  renders  it  advisable  that  I  should  assist  at  this  explana- 
tion between  you  and  my  nephew,  so  that  no  possible  doubt  of 
its  results  shall  remain  on  my  mind.  I  trust  you  will  be  kind 
enough  to  take  my  word  for  this,  and  to  believe  that  a  sense 
of  duty,  and  not  my  own  choice,  has  induced  me  to  overcome 
my  personal  reluctance  in  this  matter.' 

" '  Allow  me  to  observe,  sir,'  blandly  remarked  Charles, 
'  that  your  presence  is  a  renewed  testimony  of  your  former 
sanction,  and  therefore  highly  welcome.  May  I  hope  that 
Mademoiselle  Montolieu  participates  in  the  same  feeling  ?' 

"  If  it  was  his  intention  to  put  me  out  of  temper  from  the 
very  beginning,  Charles  Marceau  certainly  succeeded.  Irri- 
tated at  the  tone  he  took,  I  abruptly  requested  to  be  favored 
with  the  knowledge  of  his  precise  object  in  soliciting  this  inter- 
view. 

"  He  seemed  slightly  embarrassed. 

"  '  I  must  trust  to  your  candor,'  he  at  length  replied,  '  not 
to  misconstrue  me  :  but  I  believe  you  will  agree  with  me  that 
the  recent  death  of  my  dear  mother  renders  delay  both  advisa- 
ble and  becoming.' 

"  '  Delay  !     What  delay  ?'  I  exclaimed,  in  alarm. 

"  '  I  know.'  he  resumed,  without  answering,  '  that  there  are 
objections  to  it ;  but  I  think  it  is  a  mark  of  respect  we  both 
owe  to  her  memory.' 

" '  Will  you  be  good  enough,  sir,'  I  said,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot  as  I  spoke,  '  to  tell  me  what  you  mean  V 

"  His  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  floor  ;  his -whole  mien  was 
embarrassed  ;  looking  up  at  length  he  replied  very  gravely  : 

" '  I  feel  that  I  am  in  a  most  difficult  position,  since  the 
point  I  am  obliged  to  urge  is  one  likely  to  prejudice  me  ia 


NATHALIE,  363 

your  opinion ;  and  yet  allow  me  to  say  that  I  liave  little  fear 
but  that  reflection  will  convince  you  a  proper  regard  for  the 
memory  of  the  dead  does  not  imply  indifference  for  the  living.' 

"  He  spoke  with  great  composure,  and  met  my  look  very 
steadily;  a  moment  I  felt  myself  bewildered  and  asked  myself 
under  what  dream  I  labored,  but  I  soon  recovered. 

"  '  I  exact  no  explanations,'  I  warmly  exclaimed ;  'What  do 
you  mean  by  that  strange  language  ?  Do  you  or  do  you  not 
imply  that  ther3  has  been  a  contract  between  us,  for  the  fulfil- 
ment of  which  contract  you  ask  delay?  Or  is  this  a  mere  de- 
lusion of  my  senses?' 

" '  I  understand  your  incredulity,'  he  said,  in  a  penitent 
tone,  '  but  pray  do  not  misinterpret  my  motives.  With  regard 
to  the  delay,  my  feelings ' 

"  '  Good  heavens  !'  I  interrupted,  losing  all  patience,  '  who 
cares  about  you  or  your  feelings  ?  The  question  is,  has  there 
or  has  there  not  been  a  contract,  bond,  promise  ? — call  it  what 
you  will  ?' 

"  '  You  doubt  my  word,  my  honor,  my  fulfilment  of  a  sacred 
promise,'  he  answered,  looking  at  me  with  grave  reproof  'Nay, 
you  do  not  know  me.  Here,  in  the  presence  of  my  respected 
uncle,  I  renew  that  promise.  You  surely  will  not  be  skeptical 
after  this  V 

"  I  saw  he  would  not  explain  or  speak  to  the  point ;  that  I 
must  myself  do  so.  This  was  no  time  to  hesitate.  Command- 
ing my  temper  as  well  as  I  could,  I  replied : 

"' Sir,  wilfully  or  not — that  God  alone  knows — you  most 
certainly  misunderstand  me.  I  claim  not  a  promise  you  never 
gave;  I  object  not  to  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  the  delay  of 
its  fulfilment.  An  union  between  us,  has,  indeed,  been  con- 
templated ;  but  I  have  never  agreed  to  it ;  and  I  may  now  add 
that  it  shall  never  take  place.' 

'• '  And  can  resentment  carry  you  thus  far  !'  exclaimed  ho 
in  a  low  and  gentle  tone. 

"  I  am  sure  I  turned  pale ;  this  calm,  smooth  persistency 
alarmed  me. 

"  '  I  have  no  resentment,'  I  replied  ;  he  shook  his  head  with 
gentle  denial ;  '  but  I  beg  to  repeat  most  distinctly,  that  there 
is  not  and  never  has  been  any  engagement  between  us.' 

"  '  If  resentment  is  not,  indeed,  your  motive,'  he  said,  very 
seriously,  '  allow  me  to  say  this  is  a  strange  way  of  breaking  a 
voluntary  engagement,  and  one  which  I  should  most  certainly 
have  been  the  last  person  to  press  unduly  upon  you.' 


354  NATHALIE. 

"  I  felt  something  like  terror ;  he  was  growing  more  and 
more  composed  in  his  falsehood  ;  entering,  I  suppose,  into  the 
spirit  of  the  part  which,  heaven  knows  for  what  purpose,  he  waa 
acting. 

"'  But  there  is  no  engagement  between  us  !'  I  indignantly 
exclaimed. 

"  '  You  say  it  is  not  resentment  V  he  calmly  pursued, '  what 
then  is  it  V 

"  I  remained  silent. 

" '  Difference  of  fortune  and  station  V  he  inquired,  with  the 
smile  I  had  learned  to  read,  and  which  now  seemed  destined  to 
remind  me  how  little  in  my  heart  I  had  respected  that  social 
barrier. 

"  I  did  not  reply. 

"'  Or  a  want  of  mutual  sympathies  V  he  continued  with  hi? 
smooth  irony. 

"  I  rose — for  I  would  bear  no  more — and  turned  towards 
him,  burning  with  powerless  anger.  '  Sir  !'  I  said,  '  I  repeat 
once  more,  that  the  engagement  to  which  you  allude  has  never 
existed.  If  you  choose  to  persist  in  asserting  this,  I  must  re- 
tire :  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  give  you  honor  and  truth.' 

"  His  look  kindled,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"  '  Before  you  retire.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,'  said  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville, interfering  for  the  first  time,  'may  I  request 
to  know,  so  that  there  need  be  no  further  doubt  or  misap- 
prehension, whether  you  absolutely  decline  to  marry  my 
nephew  V 

"  Charles  Marceau  checked  the  reply  I  was  going  to  utter, 
by  observing  in  his  smoothest  tones ;  '  Before  Mademoiselle 
Montolieu  pronounce.^  this  definite  answer,  concerning  the  na- 
ture of  which  I  do  not  think,sir,  you  feel  much  doubt,  allow  me 
to  remark,  in  the  spirit  of  common  fairness,  that  she  really  has 
not  done  herself  justice.  She  can  give  for  breaking  her  en- 
gagement a  motive  much  more  valid  than  the  motives  I  sug- 
gested. A  motive  indeed  which  justifies  her  to  herself,  and 
iibove  all  to  me.' 

<•  I  had  already  vaguely  suspected  that  Charles  Marceau, 
like  his  mother,  knew  the  truth.  I  felt,  I  saw  it  now.  Our 
looks  met ;  his  glance  was  dark,  full  of  vindictive  triumph ;  I 
neither  moved  nor  spoke,  but  a  sense  of  sudden  faintness  came 
over  me.  I  know  not  whether  he  changed  his  mind  or  whether 
this  was  but  a  plan  to  torment  me,  but  after  a  pause  he  con 
tinued : 


NATHALIE.  365 

"'Mademoiselle  Montolieu's  motive  is  one  that  would  jus* 
tify  every  other  lady  in  her  case — caprice.' 

"  I  felt  in  my  heart  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  not  ono 
whom  such  mere  trifling  of  words  could  deceive  ;  he,  however, 
merely  said,  turning  towards  me  : 

"  '  May  I  solicit  your  reply  V 

"  Oh  !  how  difficult  it  had  now  become  to  reply  ;  I  looked 
at  Charles  to  see  what  I  had  to  hope  or  fear  from  him  ;  but 
never  had  his  features  been  more  perfectly  impenetrable  to  my 
gaze.  There  was  a  security  in  his  calmness  that  alarmed  me. 
A  host  of  tumultuous  thoughts  crowded  to  my  mind.  I  had 
no  faith  in  the  generosity  or  honor  of  Charles  Marceau. 
Wounded  as  he  was  in  his  vanity  and  pride,  might  he  not  taunt 
me  with  my  fatal  love  even  in  the  presence  of  his  uncle  ? 
Would  I  or  rather  could  I  deny  it  1  All  this  passed  within 
me  with  the  rapidity  of  thought.  I  did  not  answer  ;  I  felt  hot 
and  flushed  ;  I  turned  towards  the  glass  door  near  which  I  was 
standing:  I  looked  out  on  the  garden,  but  saw  nothing;  my 
brow  was  throbbing  violently,  the  room  was  silent  and  hushed, 
they  were  waiting  for  my  reply.  I  felt  I  must  speak.  I  half- 
turned  round  ;  Charles  Marceau  was  standing  near  me. 

"  '  The  room  is  close,'  said  he  in  his  soft  low  voice,  '  I  fear 


"J 


you  feel  unwell ;  you  want  air.' 

"  He  opened  the  glass  door.  We  now  both  stood  in  its  deep 
embrasure  ;  the  curtain  by  accident  or  design  had  fallen  ho  as 
to  screen  us  partly  from  view ;  the  room  is  large  ;  Monsieur 
de  Sainville  was  standing  at  the  further  extremity,  he  could 
see  us  but  imperfectly,  and  words  spoken  in  a  low  tone  would 
not  I  know  reach  his  ear.  In  a  second  my  resolve  was  taken. 
I  turned  towards  Charles  Marceau,  determined  to  know  the 
worst. 

'' '  I  do  not  nnderstand  you,'  said  I,  briefly. 

"  '  Perhaps  not,'  he  replied,  with  a  cold  smile. 

" '  I  do  not  think  that,  in  your  heart,  you  wish  to  marry 


me.' 


"  He  said  nothing.  I  continued  :  '  I  spare  you,  by  taking 
on  myself  all  the  blame.' 

"  '  And  by  placing  mo  in  the  enviable  position  of  a  rejected 
Buitor ;  you  are  too  good,'  he  answered,  with  much  bitterness. 

"I  began  to  understand  his  conduct;  but  I  continued: 
Answer  frankly,  if  you  can  ;  do  you,  or  do  you  not,  wish  iixf 
tliis  marriage  V 

"'I  do  not,'  he  deliberately  replied. 


366  NATHALIE. 

"  '  Then  what  do  you  want  V 

"  He  eyed  me  fixedly,  but  with  a  look  that  told  me  nothing 

"  '  Act  as  you  lilce,'  he  at  length  said. 

"  '  And  if  I  were  to  consent  V 

"  '  I  understand  the  condescension,  but  might  not.  perhaps, 
value  it  now  so  much  as  formerly.' 

"  '  You  mean,  it  would  be  your  turn  to  reject  V 

'•  He  bowed  politely. 

"  '  How  will  you  act,  if  I  persist  in  declining  V 

"  He  assumed  a  look  of  surprise. 

"  '  Really,  Mademoiselle,'  said  he,  blandly,  'I  protest  against 
this  question;  it  implies  a  doubt  of  your  entire  freedom.  If 
you  choose  to  reject  me,  I  beg,  I  entreat  you  will  do  so.' 

■■'  His  voice,  his  tone,  were  almost  frank,  but  in  his  eye  I 
read  the  menace,  '  Dare  to  do  it.' 

"  '  I  understand,'  said  I,  bitterly. 

" '  Yes,'  he  quietly  replied,  '  I  think  we  understand  one 
another.' 

"  I  knew  what  he  meant,  and  indignantly  motioned  him  to 
leave  me.  He  glided  away,  apparently  unmoved.  Assuming 
a  calmness  I  did  not  feel,  I  turned  round,  and  once  more  ap- 
proached the  table  near  which  I  had  previously  been  sitting. 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  stood  exactly  in  the  same  attitude ;  his 
look  fixed,  his  arms  folded :  he  slightly  turned  towards  me  aa 
I  hesitatingly  began  : 

"  '  Sir,  I  think,'  but  here  I  paused.  Pity  me.  Rose ;  I  had 
resolved  to  declare  my  rejection  of  Charles  Marceau  most  un- 
equivocally, but  as  I  came  to  do  it  I  remembered  his  implied 
menace,  and  my  heart  failed  me.  What  I  felt  was  no  sin,  but 
I  shrank  with  poignant  shame  from  hearing  it  revealed  ;  and, 
good  heavens  !  revealed  by  his  lips.  Instead  of  the  refusal  I 
had  intended,  I  faltered  out,  as  a  medium  course,  '  I  think,  sir, 
I  may  leave  it  to  Monsieur  Marceau  to  reply.' 

"  I  could  not  help  looking  up.  They  both  stood  before  me. 
A  gleam  of  triumph  shone  over  Charles  Marceau's  dark  fea- 
tures ;  he  eyed  me  from  head  to  foot,  and  his  exulting  look 
seemed  to  say.  '  So,  proud  girl,  you  are  humbled  at  length.' 
I  was  humbled  ;  and,  alas  !  I  felt  it  far  too  deeply,  not  to  avoid 
the  look  of  mingled  sorrow  and  surprise  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
quickly  cast  upon  me. 

" '  Mademoiselle,'  said  Charles,  bowing  with  a  courtesy 
which  only  added  to,  but  did  not  for  one  moment  veil,  the  con- 
pcious  triumph  he  did  not  so  much  as  care  to  subdue,  '  I  shall 


NATHALIE.  367 

know  how  to  repay  the  generous  confidence  you  have  placed  in 
me.  Allow  me,  therefore,  sir,'  he  added,  addressing  his  uncle, 
'  to  inform  you  that  happy  as  I  should  have  been  to  become 

'• '  Stop  i''  exclaimed  his  uncle,  in  a  voice  which,  though 
low,  commanded  obedience  ;  '  it  is  only  fair,  before  you  pro- 
ceed, to  ask  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  whether  her  ambigvious 
reply  meant  that  she  was  ready  to  be  accepted  or  refused,  at 
your  will,  that  she  was  willing  to  be  your  rejected  bride  or 
your  wife  V 

"  He  frowned,  and  spoke  sternly.  I  --eemed  to  awaken 
from  a  dream  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice. 

'• '  No,  no  !'  I  cried,  with  sudden  desperation,  '  I  Jid  not 
mean  that ;  I  meant  that  Monsieur  Marceau  knew  my  firm  re- 
solve never  to  be  aught  to  him ;  a  resolve  I  would  sooner  not 
have  repeated,  but  by  which,  come  what  will,  I  abide.' 

'•'You  abide  by  it !'  he  exclaimed,  biting  his  nether  lip, 
ani  turning  pale  with  repressed  anger. 

" '  I  abide  by  it.'  I  stood  near  the  table,  leaning  on  it 
with  one  hand,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  but  prepared  for 
the  worst ;  not  to  deny,  but  to  endure.  I  soon  perceived,  how- 
ever, that  I  knew  him  not,  and  that  the  words  I  feared  would 
never  pass  his  lips. 

'• '  Be  it  so,'  he  coldly  said ;  '  though  the  manner  in  which 
this  has  been  effected  is  little  calculated  to  please ;  the  result 
is,  to  me,  highly  satisfactory.  I  suppose  we  now  stand  mutu- 
ally free,  mutually  released  from  a  bond  which  ought  never  to 
have  been  contracted,  which  we  should  have  both  detested  in 
our  hearts,  but  which  a  sense  of  honor  would  never  have  allow- 
ed me  to  break  first.' 

"  '  Sir  !'  I  exclaimed,  much  irritated,  '  must  I  again  repeat 
that  there  never  has  been  a  bond  between  us.' 

"  He  smiled a  smile  which  was  of  the  lips  alone,  in 

which  the  eyes  had  no  part,  but  he  said  nothing,  as  if  a  sense 
of  delicacy  forbad  him  to  contradict  me. 

'"  And  I  think,'  severely  said  his  uncle,  'that  this  recrimi- 
nation is  most  unbecoming.' 

" '  Recrimination  !  sir,'  echoed  Charles,  with  apparent  sur- 
prise, '  I  protest  I  never  honored  or  esteemed  Mademoiselle 
Montolieu  so  much  as  I  do  now,  for  her  frank  and  open  rejec- 
tion of  me  ;  never.' 

"  He  spoke  too  emphatically  not  to  mean  more  than  he 
said. 


368  NATHALIE. 

"  '  Euougli,'  impatiently  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  who 
did  not  seem  to  relish  more  than  I  did  the  turn  the  conversa- 
tion was  taking  ;  '  I  suppose  all  this  is  over  now.' 

"  •  Yes,  sir,  quite  over,'  replied  his  nephew,  '  and  allow  me 
to  observe,  that  though  Mademoiselle  Montolieu's  rejection  of 
rae  might  seem  to  have  been  dictated  by  levity,  I  do  not  by 
any  means  insinuate  that  it  was.  Far  from  it ;  I  am  perfectly 
satisfied  with  her  conduct,  which  I  understand  and  appre- 
ciate.' ^ 

"  I  was  turning  away ;  I  stopped  short  as  he  concluded, 
and  confronted  him  with  glowing  cheek  and  kindling  look. 

"'But  I  do  not  understand  you,  sir,' said  I ;  whilst  my 
voice,  in  spite  of  all  I  could  do,  trembled. 

"  He^looked  down  and  smiled  ;  both  look  and  smile  said 
plainly  :   Of  course,  denial  is  the  usual  formality. 

'' '  Be  it  so,'  he  politely  replied.  '  I  am  quite  willing  to  let 
the  matter  rest ;  be  it  so.' 

"  Alas  !  what  covild  I  say ;  burning  and  angry  tears  rose 
to  my  eyes,  but  I  did  not  speak.  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  who 
was  pacing  the  room  up  and  down  with  mingled  impatience 
and  abstraction,  now  turned  towards  the  spot  where  his  nephew 
stood,  and,  walking  up  to  him,  briefly  asked : 

"  '  What  do  you  mean  V 

"  I  thought  even  then  that  had  I  been  Charles  Marceau,  I 
should  not  have  liked  to  meet  that  angry  look ;  but  he  answer- 
ed carelessly, 

'• '  Nothing,  sir.' 

" '  I  ask  you  again  what  you  mean  ?' 

"  This  time  he  spoke  sternly.     Charles  looked  up. 

"  '  Excuse  me,  sir,'  said  he,  with  a  haughty  smile,  '  but  wil- 
ling as  I  might  be  to  comply,  there  is  much  that  Mademoiselle 
Montolieu  would  object  to  hear  so  indiscreetly  mentioned ; 
that  confidence  which  exists  between  two  persons  cannot  always 
be  extended  to  a  third.' 

"  I  was  stung,  exasperated,  roused  to  passion.  You  would 
have  borne  it  all  with  angel  ineekness.  Rose,  but  either  I  am 
ill-tempered,  or  destined  to  be  ever  provoked,  for  I  confess 
that  I  felt  desperately  angry. 

"  '  There  has  been  no  confidence,'  I  cried,  indignantly,  'and 
I  have  nothing  to  fear  from  what  you  may  say.' 

"  He  gave  me  any  thing  but  a  friendly  look,  but  control- 
ling himself,  he  replied,  with  an  assumption  of  gentlemanly 
candor, 


NATHALIE.  363 

"  '  You  are  quite  riglit ;  you  have  notliing  to  fear  from  me ; 
for  be  assured  that  nothing  shall  induce  me  to  utter  a  word 
that  might  -^vound  or  offend  you ;  I  shall  be  silent ;  ay,  silent 
as  the  grave.' 

"Rose,  would  it  not  have  provoked  a  saint?  But  I  said 
nothing.  I  felt  my  utter  helplessness  ;  I  was  only  passionate ; 
he  was  calm  and  artful.  But  I  was  neither  alone  nor  unde- 
fended. 

" '  Since  you  persist  in  throwing  out  insinuations  against 
Mademoiselle  Montolieu,'  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  '  I  must 
also  persist  in  requesting  to  know  your  meaning  ?' 

" '  I  throw  out  no  insinuations  against  her,'  coldly  an.swered 
Charles  ;  '  delicacy  and  pride  forbid  me  to  speak  more  openly. 
I  challenge  her,  in  justice  to  me,  to  declare  that  I  am  justified 
in  feeling  gratified  and  relieved  at  her  rejection.' 

" '  I  ask  you  once  more,  what  you  mean  V  said  Monsieur  de 
Sainville,  without  giving  me  time  to  reply. 

'"There  are  bounds  even  to  your  authority,  sir,'  answerc^. 
Charles,  elated,  I  suppose,  at  the  advantage  I  gave  him  by  my 
silence. 

'• '  Good  heavens  !'  angrily  cried  his  uncle,  '  do  you  not  un^ 
derstand  that  I  speak  not  here  as  one  having  authority,  as 
uncle  or  guardian,  but  as  man  to  man  V 

" '  Then,  as  man  to  man,'  replied  his  nephew,  with  equal 
anger,  '  I  refuse  to  answer ;  and  as  man  to  man,  I  ask  what 
right  you  have  to  question  me  thus  ?  What  is  it  to  you  if 
Mademoiselle  Montolieu  breaks  her  engagement  to  me,  and  if 
I  think  her  justified  in  so  doing?' 

"  '  There  never  was,  there  never  has  been  any  engagement 
between  us,'  I  exclaimed,  indignant  at  his  persisting  in  that 
untruth. 

He  turned  round,  dark  and  threatening. 

"  '  You  need  not  disclaim  it  so  indignantly,'  he  said  with  his 
most  evil  look,  '  for  you  may  as  well  know  this  engagement 
would  never  have  led  to  a  marriage  you  dreaded  and  I  did  not 
envy.' 

"  I  did  not  answer ;  Monsieur  de  Sainville  came  to  the  spot 
where  I  stood ;  h«  did  not  look  at  me,  but  kept  his  glance 
steadily  fixed  on  his  nephew. 

" '  You  have  asked,'   he  said,  with  a  seriousness  free  from 

anger,  •  why  I  interfere  between  you  and  this  young  girl,  and 

had  she,  indeed,  ever  stood  to  you  in  the  relation  of  future 

irife,  nothing  should  now  induce  me  to  interfere ;  but  besides 

16* 


370  NATHALIE. 

her  own  emphatic  assertions,  I  have  the  express  declaration  of 
your  late  mother — I  know,  in  short,  that  she  is  not  and  ha? 
never  been  tinder  any  engagement  to  you.' 

"'Admitting  this  for  the  sake  of  argument,'  coldly  said 
Charles,  '  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conceive  the  reason  of  this  inter- 
ference.' 

" '  She  has  been  my  guest,'  replied  Monsieur  de  Sainvillo 
with  unmoved  gravity ;  'it  is  my  duty  to  protect  her  from 
slights  and  unsupported  accusations.' 

" '  And  this,  sir,  is  your  only  reason  V  coldly  said  Charles. 

"  '  By  no  means,'  calmly  answered  his  uncle.  '  You  seem  to 
wish  to  know  more ;  you  are  welcome  to  the  knowledge :  1 
intend  asking  her  to  become  my  wife.  This,  I  suppose,  ex- 
plains sufficiently  the  interest  I  take  in  her  fair  name.' 

"  He  spoke  in  his  coldest  tone.  I  neither  moved  nor  spoke  ; 
I  felt  like'one  in  a  dream ;  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  face  was 
turned  from  me,  but  I  confronted  Charles  Marceau.  He  had 
turned  deadly  pale  :  anger  and  shame  struggled  on  his  features  ; 
never  had  I  seen  him  so  like  his  mother  as  he  looked  then. 
For  awhile  he  remained  confounded,  but  he  at  length  observed 
with  deep  bitterness — 

" '  It  is  very  strange,  sir,  that  you  should  wonder  at  the 
reluctance  I  expressed  with  regard  to  a  union  which  would 
not,  I  imagine,  have  been  very  agreeable  to  you.' 

" '  I  am  glad  to  learn  that  it  was  merely  reluctance — a  per- 
fectly justifiable  feeling — you  expressed,'  very  calmly  said  his 
uncle. 

" '  Sir,'  answered  Charles,  turning  towards  him,  and  speak- 
ing in  a  low  and  measured  tone,  '  you  have  taken  advantage  of 
your  superior  position,  and  of  the  opportunities  daily  inter- 
course afforded  you,  to  deprive  me  of  the  affections  of  a  wornan 
I  loved.  Perhaps  you  now  exult  in  the  conviction  of  having 
supplanted  a  younger  and  less  experienced  man  ;  perhaps  she 
now  rejoices  in  the  belief  of  being  at  last  rid  of  an  affection 
sincere  whilst  it  lasted,  and  with  which  she  trifled  most  heart- 
lessly ;  but  this  I  can  say :  if  I  know  aught  of  your  temper 
and  character,  she  will  not  find  in  you  the  submission  she 
exacted  from  me  ;  if  I  know  aught  of  her,  you  will  soon  grow 
weary  of  gratifying  her  vanity  and  caprice  :  to  time,  therefore, 
I  can  intrust  my  vengeance  and  her  punishment.' 

" '  You  say  i  have  supplanted  you,'  replied  his  uncle,  with 
something  like  disdain  ;  '  know  tliat  the  woman  who  would  have 
bad  so  much  as  a  day's  affection  for  you  could  never  have  been 


NATHALIE.  371 

but  a  stranger  to  rue.  With  regard  to  your  predictions,'  ho 
added,  after  a  slight  pause,  '  you  can  know  nothing  of  a  future 
which  is  still  a  mystery  to  me/ 

'• '  And  about  which  you  feel  much  doubt,'  bitterly  observed 
Charles. 

"  No  one  replied.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  neither  moved 
nor  looked  towards  me.  A  burning  blush  overspread  my  fea 
tures ;  the  glass  door  still  stood  open,  I  turned  towards  it  and 
stepped  out  without  looking  behind  me.  I  walked  on.  I  be- 
lieve the  sun  was  setting  in  the  west,  and  that  a  golden  glow 
filled  the  long  lime-tree  avenue ;  but  I  saw  not  either  earth  or 
sky  ;  my  head  felt  light  and  dizzy ;  I  knew  not  on  what  I  trod : 
a  rushing  sound  was  in  my  ears  ;  my  veins  ran  fire  ;  I  felt  con- 
scious of  nothing  save  the  quickened  pulsations  of  my  beating 
heart.  When  1  stopped  at  length,  I  found  myself  near  the  re- 
cess of  the  sleeping  nymph ;  that  spot  against  which  he  had 
once  warned  me,  and  where  he  had  said  the  shadow  of  death — 
I  knew  what  shadow  he  meant — still  lingered.  This  place  was 
on  my  path  ;  nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  for  me  to  find 
myself  there,  yet  a  strange  pang  shot  through  my  heart.  Am 
I  growing  superstitious  ?  Is  the  belief  in  signs  and  omens 
superstition?  Are  there  certain  moments  of  excitement  when 
revelations  unheeded  in  our  calmer  moods  are  felt  acutely  ?  I 
know  not.  Yet  though  I  felt  thus,  I  entered  as  if  an  instinct  I 
could  not  control  always  brought  me  to  this  spot.  I  sat  down 
on  the  stone  bench  ;  the  coolness  of  the  falling  waters  did  me 
good.  I  stayed  there  until  the  sun  had  set;  as  I  then  rose  and 
turned  away  to  go,  I  stopped  short  much  vexed.  Monsieur  de 
Sainville  entered.  I  did  not  like  this  ;  for  I  felt  in  my  heart 
that  I  had  not  come  there  to  be  followed  ;  whether  he  perceived 
this,  I  know  not.  He  addressed  me  with  his  usual  composure ; 
indeed  rather  coldly  than  otherwise.  Having  gone  up  to  his 
aunt's  boudoir,  and  learnt  from  her  that  it  was  my  intention  to 
go  this  same  evening,  and  at  the  same  time  having  ascertained 
that  I  was  not  gone,  he  had  concluded  I  was  in  the  garden,  and 
wishing  to  speak  to  me,  had  come  there  for  that  purpose.  There 
is  something  particularly  chilling  in  such  methodical  explana- 
tions. I  could  not  well  refuse  to  hear  him,  but  I  felt  that  I 
stood  on  the  grass-plat  before  him  as  cool  and  indifferent  as  the 
nymph  in  her  niche.  He  looked  abstracted  for  a  few  moments, 
then  said : 

"•  '  I  found  my  aunt  disconoslate  at  the  idea  of  your  depar- 
ture ;  she  is  greatly  attached  to  you.' 


372  NATHALIE. 

"  '  Yes,  sir,'  I  replied,  a  little  surprised,  '  I  believe  slic  is." 

"  '  And  I  believe,'  he  continued,  '  that  you  are  attached  to 
her.' 

"  '  0,  yes,  of  course.' 

"  '  Ay,  you  have  a  kind  heart,  and  affections  easily  won.' 

"  '  Not  so  easily,  sir,'  I  answered,  a  little  sharply ;  for  in 
my  present  mood  I  took  this  as  a  hint,  and  therefore  a  sort  of 
insult. 

"  '  Surely,'  said  he,  looking  at  me  with  some  surprise,  there 
is  nothing  offensive  in  that  V 

"  I  did  not  answer. 

"  'I  alluded  to  it,'  he  continued,  'because  I  hope  to  induce 
you  to  remain  in  Sainville  with  my  aunt.' 

"  '  It  is  quite  impossible,'  I  quickly  replied. 

"  '  Why  so  V  he  urged  ;  '  is  it  your  former  objection  that 
still  subsists  ?  Know  then  that  Charles  is  gone  and  will  not 
return  in  haste.'  I  had  thought  as  much,  yet  it  shocked  me  to 
hear  this.  I  dare  say  he  guessed  what  I  felt,  for  he  quickly 
added : 

'•  '  We  did  not  part  in  anger.  Unless  when  he  allows — 
rarely,  it  must  be  confessed — his  temper  to  overcome  his  pru- 
dence, Charles  is  a  very  sensible  young  man.  On  learning  the 
substance  of  the  last  conversation  I  had  with  his  poor  mother, 
he  became  quite  resigned  to  his  destiny.' 

"  I  inwardly  concluded,  and  I  believe  I  was  not  far  short 
of  the  truth,  that  Madame  Marceau,  seeing  the  failure  of  all 
her  schemes,  had  thrown  herself  on  her  brother's  mercy,  and 
that  her  son  had  therefore  sufficient  motive  of  resignation. 
'  Thus  you  see,'  continued  Monsieur  de  Sainville, '  this  objection 
is  quite  removed.' 

"  '  I  cannot  stay,  sir,'  I  said,  annoyed  at  his  persistency. 

"  '  But  if  you  leave,'  he  resumed,  '  think  how  dreary  it  will 
be  for  my  poor  aunt,  when  I  am  away,  as  I  often  shall  be  ; 
think  how  lonely  the  garden  will  become  !  Who  will  go  to 
look  at  the  flowers  in  the  greenhouse,  or  sit  in  the  lime-tree 
avenue  ?  Why,  the  staircase  itself  will  miss  your  step,  ever 
quick  and  impatient  like  yourself.' 

"  He  spoke  in  a  low  and  kind  tone  ;  but  I  was  not  disposed 
CO  be  mollified,  so  I  coldly  answered  : 

"  '  Madame  de  Sainville  can  find  some  other  companion.' 

'* '  None  she  would  love  half  so  well. — Have  I  persuaded 
you?'    I  shook  my  head. 

"  '  Pray  v/hat  is  your  objection  V    I  did  not  answer. 


NATHALIE.  373 

"  '  Surely,'  he  continued,  '  it  cannot  be  the  presence  of  on? 
well  nigh  old  enough  to  be  your  father?' 

"  '  And  cold  enough,'  I  thought,  but  I  carelessly  said : 

"  '■  Oh  dear,  no  !' 

"  '  Besides,'  he  resumed,  '  I  shall  be  so  little  at  home.  I 
have  projected  a  long  expedition :  first,  to  Italy,  which  I  have 
never  seen  ;  then  along  the  Mediterranean,  which  I  scarcely 
know  ;  and  thence  to  Spain,  which  I  want  to  see  again.  What 
do  you  say  to  this  itineraire  V 

"  He  looked  at  me,  but  I  was  on  my  guard,  and  could  meet 
his  look  very  composedly. 

"  '  Charming !'  I  replied,  convinced  that  he  spoke  thus  for 
the  kind  purpose  of  vexing  m^,  and  resolved  to  show  him  ii 
was  not  exactly  in  his  power  to  do  so. 

"  '  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  V  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"  '  I  can  add  the  usual  wish :  bo7t  voyage.^ 

" '  Indeed  !'  said  he,  and  looked  slightly  piqued. 

"'But  you  will  remain  here  with  my  aunt?'  he  added. 

"'No,  sir.' 

« '  No  !  Why  so  ?* 

" '  Because  I  will  not.' 

"  '  True  woman's  reason,  and  yet  I  know  you  like  Sainvill« 
in  your  heart.' 

" '  Indeed  I  do  not,'  I  cried,  almost  angrily. 

"  He  smiled,  and  resumed  his  advantage  at  once. 

"'And  what  has  this  poor  dwelling  ever  done  to  you?'  he 
asked. 

"  I  did  not  reply,  but  I  made  a  motion  to  pass  by  him — he 
had  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the  semicircle  all  this  time.  He 
did  not  move  to  let  me  go,  but  detained  me,  and  said,  in  a  low 
and  altered  tone  : — 

" '  Will  you  hear  me  ?'  " 

Nathalie  paused  in  her  recital,  and  her  sister  could  feel  her 
trembling  slightly. 

"  Are  you  chiU.  ?"  she  asked  ;  "  why  do  you  shiver  so  ?" 

"  Because,  Rose,  that  moment  seems  to  live  over  again  as  I 
Bpeak,  and  then  I  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  He  said  again  : 
'  Will  you  hear  me  ?'  but  I  did  not  reply ;  I  could  not  speak  ; 
my  heart  was  beating  fast ;  it  did  not  seem  with  fear,  nor  was 
it  yet  with  hope.  He  asked  me  again  if  I  would  hear  him, 
and  again  I  remained  silent. 

"  '  Oh  !  child,  child  !'  he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  reproach, 
you   must   surely  feel   that  we   cannot   part   thus.     Do  yon 


874  NATHALIE. 

already  know  your  power,  that  you  trifle  with  me  so  ?  Is  it 
resentment  or  caprice?  or  are  you,  indeed,  unconscious  !  know 
you  so  little  what  woman  ever  knows  so  well  V  " 

"  Well  ?"  in'|uiringly  said  Rose,  as  her  sister  had  paused 
again. 

"  Oh  !  Rose,  why  repeat  what  one  so  staid  and  grave  would 
only  deem  folly  ?" 

"  Did  you  answer  him  ?"  asked  Rose,  without  heeding  the 
objection. 

"No,  I  did  not." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  V 

A  deeper  color  overspread  the  features  of  the  yjung  girl, 
whose  head  still  rested  on  her  sister's  shoulder.  She  hesitated 
slightly,  and  lowered  her  voice,  as  she  replied : 

"  He  told  me  that  he  loved  me  ;  not  once,  or  twice,  did  he 
say  so,  but  over  and  over  again  ;  ay,  many  a  time.  His  look, 
his  voice,  his  very  tones,  were  changed.  As  the  thrilling  and 
impassioned  accents  rang  in  my  ear,  I  felt  as  if  the  pulses  of 
my  heart  for  a  moment  stood  still ;  I  knew  not  whether  I 
breathed  or  lived  ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  the  outward  world  had 
vanished, — as  if  I  stood  in  some  new  and  unknown  region, 
unconscious  of  all  things,  save  one  rapturous  thought.  We 
stood  in  that  quiet  spot,  asunder,  though  face  to  face  ;  he  spoke, 
I  listened 5  the  mooa  had  made  her  way  to  the  midway  heavens; 
every  thing  around  was  touched  with  a  soft  pale  light ;  the 
dark  cypresses  rose  against  the  deep  blue  sky,  and  their  low 
whispering  sound  blended  with  the  miirmur  of  the  falling 
waters.  Surely  deep  joy  resembles  sorrow,  for  as  I  stood 
there,  a  sudden  sense  of  the  instability  of  all  earthly  things 
came  over  me,  and  in  the  folly  and  delirium  of  ray  heart,  I 
prayed  that  this  moment  might  last  for  ever." 

'•  Was  this  all?"  said  Rose  ;  "  did  he  say  no  more  ?" 

"  He  said  much  more,  Rose,  much  about  the  past,  and 
there  being  no  further  misunderstanding  between  us.  Oh  ! 
how  kindly  and  tenderly  he  spoke.  And  when  he  ceased,  he 
laid  his  hand  upon  my  head,  g3ntly,  and  yet  firmly,  as  if  by 
the  act  he  were  claiming  an  i  making  me  his  for  ever.  I 
looked  up  ;  there  was  no  denial  on  my  lips,  none  in  my  heart, 
and  yet  I  felt  subdued  by  a  power  to  which  I  blindly  yielded, 
and  which  I  as  blindly  loved.  Oh  !  Rose,  this  was  very 
unlike  your  rebellious  sister.  How  could  I  once  have  believed 
what  is  yet  most  true  ;  that  I  should  live  to  be  charmed  by 
this  sen.se  of  yielding  and  dependence  ?" 


NATHALIE.  375 

"What  else  did  he  say  V  asked   Kose,  as  Nathalie  paused 


again. 


There  was  a  brief  silence. 

"  Never  mind  what  he  said,  Rose.  Ah!  me,  I  fear  love's 
language  was  never  made  to  be  repeated.  "What  has  been  the 
mutual  and  impassioned  delight  of  two  hearts,  leaves  a  third 
cold  and  unmoved.  I  dare  not  tell  you  all  he  said,  all  I  heard 
and  listened  to  with  averted  look  and  beating  neart.  You 
would  surely  think  me  very  foolish,  nor  perchance  deem  him 
over  wise;  yet  I  will  tell  you  this,  Rose,  because  it  is  the  joy 
and  the  delight  of  my  being  to  hear  even  my  own  lips  repeat  it ; 
he  loves  me  ;  yes,  he  loves  me.  Think  of  me  what  you  will.  I 
will  confess  to  you.  Rose,  that  as  I  stood  there,  whilst  he  spoke 
to  me  thus,  I  felt  with  a  strange  joy  I  cannot  define,  that  she, 
for  whose  sake  he  had  ever  shunned  this  spot — she,  whose 
image  had  once  risen  before  him,  between  us,  and  checked  the 
vei'y  words  on  his  lips, — she,  the  beautiful,  the  lovely  maiden, 
the  passion  of  his  youth,  had  faded  from  his  memory,  and  lay 
forgotten  in  her  gi'ave,  whilst  I  alone  was  loved  and  remem- 
bered. Oh  !  yes,  he  loves  me  with  passion,  honor,  truth,  and 
tenderness,  all  blending  in  one  deep  and  holy  feeling.  Did  I 
ever  say  he  was  cold?  Then  believe  it  not,  or  rather  believe 
me  when  I  tell  you  that  the  coldness  of  his  years  may  be  in 
his  look,  and  on  his  brow,  but  oh  !  Rose,  not  in  his  heart. 
There  the  warmth,  the  sacred  fire  of  youth  are  living  and 
fervent  still.  You  sigh!  Do  not  chide;  do  not  breathe 
a  word  to  dispel  a  dream — if  it  is  indeed  a  dream — so  delight- 
ful and  so  pure.  I  am  young,  and  in  youth  life  is  sweet ;  I 
have  wondered  how  it  ever  could  be  called  sad  ;  I  have  rejoiced 
in  the  consciousness  of  existence  with  that  light,  buoyant 
feeling  and  nameless  joy  which  rise  in  the  heart  when  we  are 
in  the  first  spring  and  freshness  of  our  years ;  but  I  have 
lived  to  learn  that  to  love  and  be  loved  is  a  deeper  joy,  and  a 
happiness  more  exquisite  still.  Say  that  I  am  foolish,  if  you 
will,  but  do  not  seek  to  undeceive  me  ;  I  would  not  believe  you. 
Rose,  indeed  I  would  not.  A  boundless  and  holy  faith  lives  in 
my  heart.  I  did  not  feel  saddened  on  bidding  him  farewell, 
this  evening,  even  though  I  knew  we  should  not  soon  meet 
again.  Had  he  been  going  on  some  distant  journey,  I  should 
not  have  felt  it,  in  the  fulness  of  my  joy.  Time  exists  no 
more  for  me ;  I  feel  as  if  sorrow,  separation,  and  all  that  the 
heart  dreads,  were  powerless  now.  Rose,  I  stand  on  a  rock; 
which  all  this  world's  grief  and  sorrows  will  assail  in  vain." 


376  NATHALIE. 

Tears  of  emotion  dimmed  her  eyes  as  ste  spoke.  If  Kosa 
doubted  ;  if  she  thought  that  this  fire  of  passion  would  die 
away,  like  every  fire  of  earth  ;  if  she  thought  that  the  anchor 
of  faith,  on  which  her  sister  leaned  so  securely,  would  in  th^- 
end  prove  a  broken  reed,  she  was  merciful,  and  said  nothing. 


CHAPTEPt  XXVI. 

The  life  and  light  of  a  happy  heart  had  now  fallen  on  the 
gloomy  dwelling  of  Madame  Lavigne.  Nathalie  abandoned 
herself  to  happiness,  with  a  childish  delight,  which  Rose  sigh- 
ed to  see,  but  which,  in  spite  of  her  sighing,  charmed  her,  as 
all  that  is  natural  and  genial  must  ever  charm.  Even  Ma- 
dame Lavigne  acknowledged  the  secret  power  of  this  sudden 
change,  and  something  like  a  smile  came  over  her  sour  features 
as  the  young  Provencal  girl  moved  about  the  house  with  all  the 
former  lightness  and  buoyancy  of  her  temper,  singing  snatches 
of  those  Provencal  songs  which  had  found  favor  in  the  blind 
woman's  ear,  and  filling  that  cheerless  abode  with  all  the  joy 
and  gayety  of  her  heart. 

"  Do  you  not  long  to  be  rid  of  all  this  noise  ?"  she  suddenly 
asked,  addressing  her  ungracious  hostess  on  the  afternoon  fol- 
lowing her  return  from  the  chateau. 

"  My  dear  little  Nathalie,"  soothingly  observed  the  blind 
woman.^  to  whom  this  noise  was  a  real  blessing,  "you  must 
never  mind  what  I  say  when  I  am  a  little  put  out ;  stay  hero 
as  long  as  you  like ;  you  know  how  fond  I  am  of  you." 

Here  the  door  opened,  and  Desiree  looked  in. 

"  A  servant  brought  these  from  Madame  de  Sainvillc  for 
Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  she  said. 

And  as  she  spoke,  she  extended  her  hand,  which  held  a 
small  but  exquisite  bouquet  of  flowers. 

Nathalie  threw  down  her  task,  and  eagerly  sprang  forward 
to  receive  it. 

"  What !  these?''''  sharply  asked  Madame  Lavigne  ;  "  do  you 
imagine.  Rose,  that  if  I  allow  your  sister  to  be  here,  it  is  to 
be  pestered  with  foolish  messages  from  those  people  at  the 
chateau  ?" 

"  It  is  only  flowers,  aunt,"  quietly  answered  Rose. 


NATHALIE.  377 

•'■Lcfc  uiG  smell  them,  then,"  replied  her  aunt,  -vrith  evideni 
mistrust. 

Nathalie   very   reluctantly   handed   the   bouquet   to   her. 
Madame  Lavigne  took  it,  held  it  a  while  before  her  face,  then 
threw  it  down  contemptuously,  exclaiming  : — 
"  I  hate  flowers  !" 

'•  You  are  very  ill-natured,"  angrily  cried  Nathalie,  picking 
up  the  bouquet,  which  had  suffered  from  the  fall ;  "  my  poor 
flowers  !"  she  added  with  evident  chagrin. 
The  blind  woman  laughed. 

"J^/i,  hon  Bimr  she  said,  with  her  ill-natured  smile, 
"how  fond  we  have  become  all  at  once  of  that  foolish  old 
Canoness  !  But  what  on  earth  tempts  her  to  send  you  her 
flowers,  now?  she  never  thought  of  that  before." 

Rose  looked  up  with  a  half  smile  at  her  sister,  whose 
blushing  face  was  now  bending  over  the  flowers,  as  if  to  inhale 
their  fragrance. 

The  Canoness  still  kept  to  her  room  ;  the  flowers  were 
evidently  not  of  garden  growth.  Rose  had  often  understood 
from  Nathalie  that  no  profane  band  was  ever  allowed  to  touch 
Monsieur  de  Sainville's  greenhouse  plants  ;  it  was  not  hard  for 
her  to  guess  from  whom,  though  sent  in  the  name  of  the  Cano- 
ness, the  flowers  really  came. 

To  Madame  Lavigne's  indignation  a  similar  bouquet  came 
every  morning  for  Nathalie. 

On  the  fifth  day  the  flowers  were  accompanied  by  a  note 
from  the  Canoness,  expressing  her  great  chagrin  at  not  seeing 
her  young  friend,  and  hoping  that  as  Monsieur  de  Sainvillo 
was  out  for  the  day,  she  might  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  her  com- 
pany. Nathalie  silently  handed  the  note  to  her  sister,  with 
whom  she  was  then  sitting  alone. 

"  I  suppose  you  intend  to  go  ?"  said  Rose. 
"  Yes,  I  shall  go  this  afternoon,"  replied  Nathalie,  without 
meeting  her  look. 

"  Oh  !  how  glad  I  am  you  are  come.  Petite,"  said  the  Cano- 
ness, as  Nathalie  entered  her  boudoir  in  the  early  part  of  the 
game  afternoon. 

She  did  indeed  look  glad,  and  Nathalie  too  was  pleased  ; 
pleased  to  see  her  kind  old  friend,  and  to  enter  that  house 
which  she  now  considered  as  her  future  home.  She  sat  down 
in  her  old  place  at  the  feet  of  the  Canoness,  listened  with  un- 
wearied patience  to  her  lamentations  on  the  dull  life  she  led, 
consoled  her  gently  when  she  spoke  of  her  late  niece,  and 


?i78  NATHALIE 

Snally  succeeded  in  restoring  her  to  something  like  her  forniei 
state  of  mind. 

"All!  Petite,"  sighed  the  Canoness,  as  they  sat  togethcf 
after  dinner,  "  if  you  would  only  not  be  so  perverse,  if  you 
would  only  remain  here  with  me.  Armand  is  very  kind,  cer 
tainly,  but  still  it  is  not  all.  Now,  about  those  flowers :  he 
knew  I  wished  to  send  you  some,  and  took  the  trouble  of 
gathering  them  himself  every  day  ;  then,  when  ho  went  away 
this  morning,  he  came  up  merely  to  advise  me  to  ask  you  to 
come  over,  because  he  said  it  would  please  and  do  me  so  much 
good ;  then,  as  he  knows  how  dull  I  must  feel,  he  comes  and 
sits  with  me  every  evening." 

"  Doas  he  talk  much  ?"  asked  Nathalie. 

"  No,  Petite,  but  he  makes  me  talk  ;  and  knowing  there  is 
no_  subject  I  like  half  so  well,  he  says,  '  Come,  aunt,  say  some- 
thing about  Petite.'  " 

"  About  me  !"  cried  Nathalie,  with  a  startled  look. 

"  Yes,  Petite,  but  you  need  not  mind  it ;  it  is  only  done  to 
please  me.  He  scarcely  listens,  but  just  smiles  now  and  then 
at  some  of  your  odd  sayings.  He  tries  to  look  interested  and 
amused,  but  you  understand,  child,  that  I  have  too  much  pene- 
tration to  be  so  easily  deceived." 

The  Canoness  drew  herself  up  very  consequentially ;  Na- 
thalie smiled  archly.  Towards  dusk.  Aunt  lladegonde  began 
to  feel  "  meditative."  Nathalie  encouraged  her  in  the  mood. 
''  Her  eyes  were  fatigued  with  working,"  she  said.  "  She  would 
not  ring  for  the  lamp,  but  sit  and  meditate  too  by  the  fireside." 
And  so  it  was ;  in  five  minutes  the  Canoness  had  dropped  into 
her  deepest  reflections,  whilst  Nathalie,  sitting  on  a  low  couch 
facing  her,  listened  eagerly  for  a  sound  that  came  not.  It 
came  at  length :  the  tramp  of  the  distant  horse — the  clatter  of 
hoofs  in  the  avenue — the  well-known  step  on  the  staircase. 
She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  sprang  from  her  seat  to  the 
window.  The  rose-colored  curtains  closed  on  her  as  Monsieur 
de  Sainville  entered.  The  fire  burned  bright  and  clear.  She 
could  see  his  face,  the  rapid  look  he  threw  around  him,  the 
brief  disappointment  which  clouded  his  brow  as  he  paused  for 
a  moment  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  But  he  came  forward, 
sat  on  the  couch  she  had  left,  took  up  a  book  lying  on  the 
table,  and  began  reading  very  attentively  by  the  firelight. 
He  had  made  little  or  no  noise,  and  his  aunt  did  not  waken. 
His  composure  piqued  Nathalie  ;  she  waited  a  while,  then  soft- 
ly came  forward,  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  page  he  was  read' 


NATHALIE.  379 

mg.     He  never  looKed  up,  but  quietly  said,  "  Pray,  do  not ;  it 
ia  an  interesting  passage." 

''  Then  you  saw  me,  after  all !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  vexed 
tone. 

He  raised  his  eyes,  smiled,  and  making  her  sit  down  on  the 
couch  by  his  side,  laid  his  hand  on  her  head,  and  looked  into 
her  face. 

"  My  poor  child,"  he  said,  "  you  cannot  deceive  even  in 
little  things.  You  hid  yourself,  and  left  your  fan  lying  here 
on  the  couch ;  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  the  firelight  shining 
on  its  little  jet  chain." 

"  And  how  did  you  know  it  was  my  fan  ?  I  never  nsed  it 
but  once  on  the  day  of  the  fefe.  I  brought  it  to-night  to  show 
Marraine  that  it  was  not,  as  she  imagined,  lost." 

He  did  not  answer  her  question,  but  said:  "  You  liked  that 
fete,  I  believe  ?" 

"  I  never  danced  with  so  much  pleasure." 

"And  you  like  dancing?" 

She  laughed,  in  a  way  that  said,  "I  believe  so;"  then 
suddenly  became  grave,  and  said  "  she  was  not  so  very  fond  of 
dancing,  after  all.  She  liked  it,  of  course,  but  could  very  well 
live  without  it."     Ho  smiled, 

'•  Would  she  give  it  up  if  he  were  to  ask  her  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  would." 

"  My  poor  little  thicg  !"  he  kindly  said,  "  you  surely  do  not 
think  me  so  selfish?  I  have  not  forgotten  your  wistful  face 
when  I  found  you  lying  with  my  aunt  beneath  the  beech-tree, 
nor  yet  your  joyous  look  when  you  danced  away  so  gayly.  Be 
assured,  neither/efe.  dance,  nor  pleasure  shall  fail  you." 

In  spite  of  her  ready  acquiescence  with  his  supposed  wish, 
Nathalie  now  felt  and  looked  charmed. 

"  Would  he  indeed  take  her  to  balls,  and  should  there  be 
fetes  in  Sainville  ?  She  did  not  mean  charity  fetes,  but  other 
fetes  ?     How  delightful !" 

"  So,  Petite,"  he  replied,  '•'  you  really  thought  that  fete  was 
given  for  charity's  sake  ?  Oh  !  how  deep  you  are  !  how  much 
penetration  you  have,  as  my  aunt  would  say  ?" 

He  eyed  her  with  an  amused  glance  and  smoothed  away 
the  hair  from  her  clear  brow.  At  first  she  looked  at  him  with 
quiet  wonder,  but  remembering  the  hints  Madame  Marceau  had 
(brmerly  dropped,  she  smiled  archly  and  said,  with  a  signifi- 
cant nod : 

"  Ah  !  I  remember,  it  was  about  the  time  of  the  elections." 


380  NATHALIE. 

"  Why  you  are  getting  quite  shrewd  !  The  elections  !  Yea 
So  my  sister  thought  too.  Poor  woman  !  she  fancied  my  train 
filled  with  political  schemes,  when  the  dreams  of  youth  were 
wakening  once  more  in  my  heart !  She  thought  me  so  prudent 
and  so  wise  !  But  Madame  de  Jussac  saw  deeper  ;  she  guess- 
ed— and  let  me  see  it — that  the  fete  Rosalie  thought  destined 
to  lead  me  to  the  Chamber,  was  only  given  after  all  to  procure 
a  day's  pleasure  to  a  young  and  merry  little  girl." 

"  For  nye  !"  exclaimed  Nathalie  bewildered,  "  for  me  tha^ 
fete  which  cost  so  much — to  which  so  many  people  came — that 
fete  was  given  for  me  ?" 

"  Why  not.  Petite  ?" 

He  bent  forward  to  watch  her  fiico  by  the  changing  firelight, 
and  evidently  enjoyed  the  pleased  wonder  expressed  by  her 
eager  look  and  parted  lips. 

"  And  the  flowers,  the  flowers  you  brought  from  Aries," 
she  eagerly  exclaimed,  "  did  you  go  into  the  old  house  by 
chance?     I  do  not  think  so  now !" 

He  met  her  inquiring  look  with  a  smile — a  smile  that  said 
much.  "  He  loved  me  even  then  !"'  she  quickly  thought,  and 
he  who  read  her  face  so  easily,  replied  in  a  low  but  audible 
tone  : 

"  Yes,    Petite,  even  then." 

She  bowed  her  head  and  clasped  her  hands.  '-God  help 
me  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  God  help  me  !  some  misfortune  must  be 
near.     I  feel  too  happy  !" 

I'  Too  happy !"  he  echoed,  with  sudden  sadness ;  "  Petite, 
Petite,  there  is  not  half  enough  happiness  in  this  world.  That 
which  endures  is  cold  and  tame  ;  that  which  is  delightful  is, 
alas  !  so  brief" 

He  drew  her  towards  him  and  held  her  fast,  as  if  she  were 
that  happiness,  delightful  though  fleeting,  he  longed  to  detain 
her  thus  for  ever. 

But  his  aunt  awoke — he  released  her. 

The  Canoness  promptly  rang  the  bell,  and  said  ^'-she  hated 
darkness."  When  the  servant  who  brought  the  light  was  gone, 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  rose  and  lightly  placing  his  hand  on  Na- 
thalie's  shoulder,  said  calmly : 

"  Aunt,  you  see  this  young  girl  V 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Canoness,  with  profound  astonishment. 
••  my  sight  is  still  good,  Armand,  I  see  Petite." 

"  Ay,  Petite,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  that  is  a  pretty  name^ 
Runt,  you  have  fixed  upon  ;  I  have  often  thought  so." 


NATHALIE.  381 

The  Canouess,  wiio  was  still  tryiag  to  find  out  why  her  ue 
phew  had  ask&d  her  if  she  saw  Nathalie,  looked  puzzled  and 
did  Dot  answer. 

"  Well,  then,"  resumed  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  "  when  you 
see  her  you  also  see  my  future  wife  !" 

The  knitting,  which  had  already  suspended  its  operations. 
now  fairly  dropped  from  Aunt  Radegonde's  fingers. 

"  OA,  mon  Dieu  /"  she  exclaimed,  and  then  looked  from 
her  rephew  to  Nathalie  with  utter  amazement.  '•  But  it  is  not 
true,  Petite,  is  it?"  she  added  after  a  long  pause. 

"  Is  it  true  V  asked  Monsieur  de  Sainville  of  Nathalie. 

She  still  sat  motionless  in  the  same  attitude  m  the  bright 
light  of  the  ardent  fire  ;  but  when  he  spoke  she  rose  slowly  and 
seriously,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  clasped  it  firmly 
within  his  and  silently  looked  down  upon  her  with  a  smile  of 
mingled  pride  and  afi'ectiou. 

"Yes,  aunt,''  he  repeated,  "you  see  my  future  wife." 

"  It  is  impossible,  Armand  :  impossible  !"  said  the  Canoness, 
in  a  low  and  agitated  tone. 

"  Impossible,  aunt,"   he  asked,  looking  up,  '•  why  so  1" 

"  Because  you  do  not,  cannot  think  of  marriage,  Armand." 

Her  voice  trembled,  but  she  spoke  emphatically. 

There  was  a  pause.  Nathalie  slightly  turned  pale.  Mon- 
sieur do  Sainville  colored,  and  scarcely  repressed  a  movement 
of  impatience,  but  leaving  the  side  of  Nathalie,  he  went  up  to 
his  aunt,  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  said  in  his  mildest  tones  : 

"  Forgive  me,  aunt ;  I  should  not  have  told  you  this  so  ab- 
ruptly ;  but  the  past  is  past  for  ever.  I  thought  you  had  un- 
derstood this  long  ago,  and  forgotten  what  it  is  only  needless 
pain  to  remember." 

The  Canoness  did  not  reply  ;  tears  were  flowing  down  her 
cheeks,  and  fell  down  on  her  clasped  hands.  She  shook  hor 
head  and  murmured : 

"  Forgotten,  Armand ;  forgotten !  The  lover  forgois  his 
mistress,  the  wife  her  husband ;  but  the  woman  who  has  had 
or  reared  a  child  never  forgets  it." 

Her  nephew  allowed  her  emotion  to  subside  before  he  said 
gently  : 

"  Aunt,  will  you  not  embrace  your  niece?" 

But  Nathalie  did  not  advance  to  receive  the  expected  kiss. 
DOT  did  the  Canoness  look  up  or  offer  to  give  it, 

"Niece,"  she  echoed  with  a  deep  sadness;  "ay,  I  had  a 
Diece  once !" 


382  NATHALIE. 

She  spoke  almost  inaudibly  ;  pcbaps  Monsieur  de  Salnville 
did  not  heai-  her,  for  he  continued : 

"Why  do  you  not  look  up,  auut?  You  are  surely  not 
afraid  of  the  face  of  your  new  relative  V 

The  Canoness  slowly  raised  her  mild  blue  eyes,  and  fast 
ened  a  mournful  glance  on  the  bright  face  and  graceful  form 
of  the  young  girl ;  she  detected  the  proud  and  admiring  look 
which  her  nephew  cast  on  his  betrothed  as  he  epoke, — a  lo'-k 
that  said  how  far  from  indifferent  he  was  to  each  charm  and 
grace  of  her  who  stood  by  his  side. 

"  Yes,  she  is  young  and  pretty,"  sadly  said  Aunt  Eade- 
gonde;  "young  and  pretty,  Armand,  I  grant  it ;  but  another 
was  so  once." 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  displeased,  turned  away,  and 
paced  the  narrow  boudoir  with  an  impatient  step. 

"Aunt,"  said  he,  stopping  once  more  near  to  his  aunt's 
chair,  "you  mean  no  unkindness ;  but  surely  Mademoiselle 
Montolieu  is  entitled  to  something  more  from  you." 

The  Canoness  started  slightly :  a  struggle  between  her  own 
secret  feelings,  and  her  habitual  respect  for  her  nephew's  will, 
was  evidently  taking  place  within  her :  "  Petite  knows  that  1 
love  her  dearly,"  she  said  at  length,  "  and  therefore  she  knows 
that  I  wish  her  every  happiness." 

"  And  you  are  of  course  glad  that  she  is  to  become  my 
wife  ?"  persisted  her  nephew. 

The  Canoness  stopped  to  pick  up  her  knitting ;  if  she  had 
heard  what  Monsieur  de  Sainville  said,  she  did  not  reply.  Ere 
long  she  rose ;  she  wanted  something  in  the  next  room,  she 
said.     It  was  some  time  before  she  returned. 

A  deep  silence  succeeded  her  departure.  Nathalie  had  re- 
sumed her  seat ;  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  room  ;  he  suddenly  stopped  short,  looked  at  Nathalie, 
and  said : 

"What  are  you  looking  at?" 

"  Nothing,"  she  quickly  replied. 

"Petite,"  said  he  gravely,  "how  often  must  I  tell  you  that 
deceit  is  not  your  forte.  If  you  did  not  wish  me  to  see  that 
you  were  looking  at  this  portrait  you  should  not  have  kept 
your  eyes  fastened  upon  it,  as  if  a  spell  forbade  you  to  remove 
them.     What  charm  do  you  find  in  it?" 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,  is  it  not  ?"  she  hesitatingly  replied, 
and  turned  round  to  look  at  him,  as  she  spoke.  His  face  was 
serious  but  very  calm. 


KATHALIE.  383 

"  Yes,  extremely  beautiful,"  he  replied;  '•  and  the  originalj 
of  whom  I  see  you  kuow  something,  was  one  of  the  loveliest 
creatures  this  earth  ever  knew.  A  poet  once  called  her  a 
flower ;  indeed  she  was  one,  but  too  frail,  too  weak,  not  to  be 
swayed  by  every  breeze." 

"  One  of  the  loveliest  creatures  this  earth  ever  knew !" 
echoed  Nathalie  in  her  thoughts  ;  "  and  it  is  true,"  she  added, 
inwardly  again  glancing  at  the  portrait  which  seemed  to  be 
smiling  down  on  her  in  its  eternal  and  serene  loveliness. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  sat  down  by  her  side. 

"  Petite,"  said  he,  in  a  low  tone,  '•  you  should  not  look  at 
that  portrait  only ;  there  is  another  in  this  room,  less  angel- 
like no  doubt,  far  more  human,  but,  in  my  belief,  far  more 
beautiful.  Come,  look  at  my  Aunt  Adelaide ;  she  is  dark,  but 
frankness,  truth,  and  courage  are  on  her  brow.  There  is  pride 
in  the  carl  of  her  lip,  in  the  arch  of  her  "neck,  but  soul  and  ten- 
derness in  her  eyes.  She  would  not  say  she  loved  a  man,  and 
yet  agree  to  marry  another,  whilst  he  was  away  trusting  in  her 
faith.  If  she  loved — however  imperfect  might  be  the  object 
of  her  love — however  harsh  and  exacting  he  might  have  shown 
himself — yet  would  she  remain  true,  and  love  him,  not  as  a 
passionless  being,  but  as  a  woman  ;  not  as  if  he  were  a  friend 
or  brother,  but  as  a  woman  loves  her  lover  or  her  husband. 
Come,  would  she  not  V 

"  Yes,"  slowly  replied  Nathalie.     There  was  a  pause. 

"  Which  do  you  like  best  ?"  she  asked  abruptly,  turning 
round. 

"  The  last,  Petite,  the  last,"  he  replied,  smiling  at  the  ques- 
tion, and  yet  his  voice  sounded  true. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  said,  after  a  while. 

"  It  is  a  brief  story.  Lucile  was  my  aunt's  favorite  niece, 
and  my  cousin.  We  were  brought  up  together  and  betrothed. 
During  my  absence  she  agreed  to  marry  a  husband  of  her 
father's  selection.  When  I  came  back  she  repented  her  weak- 
ness and  offered  to  break  her  engagement — I  refused." 

"  Why  so  V 

"  Why  !"  he  echoed  with  some  surprise,  "  because  no  woman 
whose  love  is  true  will  break  through  a  sacred  engagement. 
Besides,  what  man  of  delicacy  cares  to  wed  her  who  has  been 
the  betrothed  of  another?" 

"  A  delicacy  women  must  not  feel  of  course,"  thought  Na- 
thalie, with  some  bitterness.  But  she  said  nothing,  and  Mon- 
eieur  de  Sainville  was  too  confident  of  the  privileges  of  his  sex 


384  NAi-UALir:. 

to  dream  that  sucli  a  tbouglit  might  offer  Itself  to  the  young 
girl. 

'•What  was  she  like?"  she  resumed  after  a  pause. 

"  Who,  my  cousin  ?  Why,  what  tempts  you  to  talk  about 
her?" 

"Do  you  object?"  she  quickly  asked. 

"  Really  no,"  he  composedly  replied ;  '■  but  there  is  her 
portrait, — a  striking  likeness." 

"  What  was  she  like  in  feeling,  temper,  and  character?" 

'•  A  charming,  gentle  creature,  who  never  had  a  will  of  her 
own — who  yielded  to  me  in  every  thing." 

"  You  liked  that  of  course." 

"  No,  Petite ;  for  she  yielded  to  every  one,  and  divided 
submission  is  like  divided  affection — worthless." 

"  But  she  grieved  deeply,  did  she  not  ?"  asked  Nathalie, 
whom  a  painful  curiosity  still  impelled  to  learn  more. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  slightly  moved. 

"  Well,  perhaps  she  did ;  but  not  to  the  extent  that  has 
been  said,"  he  at  length  replied.  "  She  had  always  been  deli- 
cate, and  her  mother  was  consumptive  ;  this  accounts  for  her 
early  death.     But  have  we  not  enough  of  this,  Petite  ? 

'•  Only  one  question  more  :  is  it  not  for  her  sake  you  shun 
the  recess  of  the  sleeping  nymph?" 

"  Oh,  you  daughter  of  Eve,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh  and  a 
wistful  look,  "  Lucile  is  dead  in  my  heart.  It  is  not  her  spirit, 
poor  girl,  that  haunts  the  spot  she  once  loved,  the  spot  where  I 
have  met  her  so  often,  but  the  pale  and  dreary  ghost  of  a  dead 
affection." 

A  sudden  terror  entered  the  heart  of  Nathalie.  "  Shall  I 
too  die  in  your  heart?  Shall  I  too  die  there  some  day?"  she 
quickly  asked,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

"  God  forbid,  my  poor  child,"  he  replied  very  earnestly  ;  "  I 
will  not  think  of  death  in  any  shape  for  you." 

She  looked  up  joyous  at  once.  A  stop  was  put  to  the  con- 
versation by  the  entrance  of  Aunt  Radegonde.  Monsieur  de 
Sainville  was  sitting  near  Nathalie  ;  he  had  laid  his  arm  on 
the  back  of  the  couch,  and  was  in  the  act  of  stooping  to  speak 
to  her,  when  his  aunt  entered.  He  did  not  look  up  or  cha^ige 
his  attitude,  but  Nathalie  detected  the  troubled  and  dreary 
look  with  which  the  Canoness  eyed  them  both  as  she  paused 
near  the  door. 

Aunt  Radegonde  resumed  her  place, her  knitting,  talked  on 
various  subjects,  addressed   her  nephew,  then  Nathalie,  but 


NATHALIE  .  385 

though  she  strove  to  be  both  cheerful  and  conversational,  sha 
was  so  evidently'  ill  at  ease,  that  instead  of  remaining  until 
Nathalie's  departure,  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  taking  pity  on  his 
aunt,  left  the  boudoir  at  an  early  hour.  The  conversation 
ceased  entirely  when  he  was  gone.  Nathalie  sat  near  the  ta- 
bic, her  elbow  leaning  upon  it.  and  the  hand  which  supported 
her  head  also  shading  her  eyes.  At  length  she  rose,  walked  up 
to  the  Canoness,  sat  down  on  the  stool  at  her  feet,  placed  both 
her  clasped  hands  on  the  lap  of  her  old  friend,  and  wistfully 
looking  up  into  her  face,  inquired,  with  great  earnestness  : — ' 
_ "  Marraine,  are  you  indeed  sorry  at  what  Monsieur  de 
Sainville  has  told  you  ?     Are  you  sorry  to  be  my  aunt,  indeed  ?" 

Aunt  Radegonde  looked  down  at  her,  laid  her  two  little 
hands  on  the  young  girl's  dark  hair,  and  gazing  into  her  eyes 
as  if  she  would  read  her  very  soul,  she  answered,  with  another 
question : — 

"  Do  you  love  him  ?" 

Their  looks  met :  the  doubt,  sadness,  and  regret  of  age  in 
one  glance ;  the  hope,  the  fervor,  the  love  of  youth  in  the 
other. 

''With  my  whole  heart,  with  my  whole  soul,"  answered 
Nathalie,  in  a  low  tone,  but  with  an  earnestness  that  deepened 
her  color  on  her  cheek. 

"  Oh  I  inon  Dieu  !"  mournfully  exclaimed  the  Canoness  ; 
"  it  is  a  fatality — a  fatality  !"  she  repeated. 

"  What  is  a  fatality?"  asked  Nathalie. 

"Did  I  not  warn  you?"  pursued  Aunt  Radegonde,  "did 
you  not  know  the  past  ?  Was  not  that  enough  to  warn  you  ? 
Alas,  no,  for  you  love  him  !" 

"Why  alas?"  asked  Nathalie  with  a  smile. 

The  Canoness  did  not  reply,  but  looked  at  her  with  such 
deep  sadness  that  the  eyes  of  Nathalie  filled  with  tears. 

"I  see,"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low  tone,  "I  see  you  do  not 
wish  me  to  become  your  niece." 

She  made  a  motion  to  rise  ;  Aunt  Radegonde  detained 
her. 

"  Petite,"  she  said,  "  it  is  because  I  love  you  I  wish  this 
wore  not  to  be  ;  but  it  is  beyond  remedy  now  ;  the  will  of  God 
be  done." 

There  was  a  brief  silence. 

"  I  understand,"  at  length  observed  Nathalie  ;  "  you  thiiilj 
he  does  not  love  me?" 

"  I  do  not  say  that,"  very  gravely  replied  the  Canoness. 
17 


386  NATHALIE. 

'•  Then  wliat  do  you  think  ?"  impatiently  asked  the  ycun^ 
girl. 

"  Oh  !  Petite,"  was  the  sorrowful  reply,  "  those  who  have 
lived  long  like  me  know  many  sad  and  bitter  things ;  they 
know  thai  youth  and  beauty  are  brief  gifts,  and  that  short  ia 
the  life  of  the  longest  love." 

"  But  his  love  will  last,'  said  Nathalie,  in  a  low  tone,  "  for 
he  is  wise,  and  cares  little  for  youth  or  beauty." 

"  You  do  not  believe  what  you  say  ;  no,  not  a  word  of  it ;'" 
almost  angrily  cried  the  Canoness. 

"  And  why  not  ?"  asked  Nathalie,  coloring  deeply. 

"  Not  care  for  beauty  V   bitterly  continued  Aunt  E,ade 
gonde  ;  "  why  then  was  she  so  lovely,  and  you  ? — but  why  need 
I  tell  you  that  which  you  surely  know,  and  which  he  too,  trust 
him,  knows  well !" 

"  How  can  you  tell  ?"  asked  Nathalie. 

"  How  T'  exclaimed  the  Canoness,  somewhat  nettled,  "  why 
by  observation  of  course  !  You  surely  do  not  think  I  do  not 
observe,  or  that  all  this  has  surprised  me  so  very  much  ?" 

"  What  have  you  observed  ?"  inquired  the  young  girl. 

"  Oh  !  many,  many  things ;  I  have  seen  him  looking  at 
you  when  you  could  not  notice  it,  and  when  no  doubt  he 
thought  I  was  minding  my  knitting.  I  have  seen  him  lay 
down  his  paper  or  his  book  to  follow  you  about  the  room  with 
his  glance  ;  I  have  seen  him  smile  at  your  impatient  answers, 
and  look  pleased  when  he  saw  how  he  could  with  a  word  make 
your  face  change  and  light  up  at  his  will.  Yes,  Petite,  I  saw 
it  all ;  often  did  it  remind  me  of  .the  times  when  he  and  Lucile 
were  young  together — often ;  and  yet,  I  confess,  I  never  sus- 
pected he  wished  to  marry  you." 

Nathalie's  color  came  and  went  repeatedly  as  she  listened 
to  Aunt  Radegonde  ;  she  knew  not  whether  to  be  glad  or 
sorrowful ;  so  strangely  was  the  joy  which  she  felt  mingled 
with  an  acute  sense  of  pain. 

"  Well,"  resumed  the  Canoness,  with  a  sigh,  "  what  is  done 
is  done ;  he  loves  you,  you  love  him ;  and  all  you  have  to  do 
is  to  be  very  careful." 

"  How  so  ?"  asked  Nathalie,  looking  up,  with  a  smile. 

'■  Petite,  he  is  a  strange  man,  exacting  and  severe, — re 
member  that." 

"  I  am  neither  submissive  nor  gentle,  and  he  knows  it," 
said  Nathalie,  rather  haughtily. 


NATHALIE.  387 

"Yield  to  him,  yield  to  him;  it  is  best,"  urged  the  Can- 
OHess,  anxiously. 

But  this  well-meant  advice  was  very  ill-timed.  Nathalie 
was  of  those  who  yield  from  impulse,  and  never  from  motives 
of  expediency. 

"  I  submit  to  and  obey  no  man,"  she  replied,  very  decisively. 

The  Canoness  looked  at  her  with  evident  uneasiness,  but 
forbore  to  urge  the  point ;  her  thoughts  had  reverted  to  the 
feelings  of  surprise  created  in  her  by  her  nephew's  announce- 
ment. 

"  Who  would  have  thought  he  would  have  cared  about 
you?"  she  thoughtfully  observed  ;  "  who  above  all  could  have 
imagined  you,  so  young,  so  gay,  could  like  him  !  It  is  a 
mystery  all — a  profound  mystery." 

The  Canoness  solemnly  shook  her  head,  but  Nathalie 
smiled  to  herself  It  was  a  mystery,  and  one  which  charmed 
and  provoked  her.  Why  did  she  love  him?  She  scarcely 
knew.  Why  did  he  love  her?  She  knew  not  at  all,  and 
would  have  given  any  thing  to  know. 

The  conversation  languished,  and  soon  ceased  entirely. 
Nathalie  left  early.  It  was  a  clear  moonlight  night,  and  she 
declined  the  escort  of  a  servant.  Scarcely,  however,  had  the 
iron  gate  closed  upon  her,  when  she  was  overtaken  by  Monsieur 
de  Sainville. 

"  Going  alone,  along  this  solitary  road,  at  this  hour  ?"  he 
reprovingly  said,  as  he  took  her  arm  within  his. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  replied  Nathalie. 

"  No,  I  dare  say  not.  Fear  and  timidity  are  not  much  in 
your  character." 

"  And  yet  Marraine  wants  me  to  be  afraid  of  you.'' 

"Why  so?" 

"  She  says  it  is  dangerous  to  vex  you." 

"  Will  you  be  afraid  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  keen  look. 

«  No,  indeed !" 

"Do  not,  Petite;  do  not." 

"  Make  yourself  easy,"  she  decisively  replied. 

He  smiled  at  her  tone.  They  walked  on  in  silence.  She 
a.sked  him  to  leave  her,  when  they  had  reached  the  entrance  of 
the  town.  He  acceded  to  her  wish.  They  stood  at  an  angle 
cf  the  lonely  road.  He  requested  her  to  turn  to  the  light,  so 
that  he  might  see  her. 

"Why  so?"  she  asked. 

"  Because  I  am  going  away  to-morrow,  for  a  fortnight." 


388  NATHALIE. 

"  And  my  poor  face  might  be  forgotten  in  those  two  weeks." 

But  she  complied  with  his  request  The  moonlight  fell 
full  on  his  features,  as  well  as  on  hers. 

"Where  are  you  going  ?"  she  asked,  "  to  Marmont?" 

"  No,  much  further  ;  to  Paris." 

••To  Paris !"  she  echoed,  in  a  tone  of  chagrin. 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  and  as  I  may  be  detained  longer,  it  is  quite 
needful,  you  see,  to  look  at  you  well." 

He  spoke  in  a  light  tone,  and  yet  Nathalie  thought  she 
could  detect  the  accent  of  regret  in  his  voice.  Why  should  he 
not  be  sorry,  even  at  this  brief  separation,  when  she  felt  that 
tears  trembled  in  her  eyes  ?  He  had  taken  both  her  hands  in 
his,  and  was  looking  at  her  fixedly.  There  was  affection,  yes, 
she  felt  in  her  heart,  true  and  deep  affection,  in  his  gaze  ;  not 
indeed  romantic  adoration,  but  that  deeper  feeling  which  unites 
the  cherishing  love  of  the  father  to  the  lover's  tenderness. 
She  felt  that  she  was  for  him  no  divinity  to  be  worshipped, 
but  a  being  to  be  loved,  protected,  and  screened  from  ill.  She 
said  to  herself  this  was  the  love  she  preferred,  but  had  it  been 
of  a  most  opposite  nature,  she  would  have  said  the  same  thing 
Btill. 

"  Good  night,  my  child,  take  care  of  yourself,"  said  he 
gently  ;  and  with  this  quiet  adieu  they  parted. 

Nathalie  walked  on  a  few  steps,  then  stood  still. 

"  Yes,  he  loves  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  if  this  were  a 
recent  discovery  ;  "  he  loves  me,  I  feel  it ;  but  oh  !  that  I  only 
knew  why,  and  for  how  long  ?" 

The  unavailing  and  tormenting  wish  pursued  her  still. 
Oh  !  to  look  into  his  heart,  but  for  one  second  ;  to  read  there 
the  source  and  secret  of  her  power ;  to  know  the  spell  which 
bound  him  ;  the  nameless  charm  which  had  attracted  him  first, 
and  would  bewitch  him  for  ever. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Three  weeks  passed  away,  Monsieur  de  Sainvllle  did  not 
return ;  but  his  letters  were  neither  cold  nor  few ;  Nathalie 
felt  almost  content. 

On  the  close  of  the  last  day  of  the  third  week,  she  went  to 


^ATIIALIE.  389 

the  chateau.  The  evening  was  warm,  bright,  and  still;  a 
golden  mellow  liglit  pervaded  earth  and  sky.  She  stopped 
near  the  iron  gate,  to  glance  admiringly  at  the  landscape  be- 
neath. A  beggar  woman  passing  by,  took  advantage  of  the 
pause,  to  couie  up  and  tell  her  a  long  story  of  misfortune. 
Perhaps  it  was  true,  and  perhaps  it  was  not,  but  Nathalie  be- 
lieved every  word  of  it,  and  immediately  put  her  hand  into  her 
pocket.     There  was  no  money  there. 

"  How  sorry  I  am,"  she  exclaimed,  with  evident  regret. 

The  woman,  taking  this  as  an  excuse  not  to  give,  repeated 
her  lamentable  recital. 

'•  Mon  Dien  I  I  would  give  any  thing  for  my  purse,"  sor- 
rowfully exclaimed  Nathalie. 

A  brown  silk  purse  fell  with  a  clinking  sound  in  the  dust 
at  her  feet.  She  uttered  a  faint  cry,  looked  up  eagerly,  and 
beheld  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  who  had  ridden  up,  unheard, 
bending  from  his  saddle  with  a  smile.     She  clapped  her  hands. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  exclaimed  joyously  ;  her  eyes  danced 
with  pleasure. 

"  No  wonder,  you  were  longing  for  a  purse,  and  lo  !  there 
drops  down  one  at  your  feet !  Let  me  tell  you,  purses,  and  well- 
filled  ones  especially,  are  not  always  to  be  had  for  the  wishing." 

She  laughed,  picked  up  the  purse,  opened  it,  emptied  the 
contents  of  one  end  of  it  into  the  beggar-woman's  hand,  and 
tossed  it  back  to  its  owner.     He  weighed  it  in  his  hand. 

"  It  feels  lighter.  Petite." 

"  Yes,  purses  were  made  to  be  emptied." 

"  My  experience  says  they  must  be  filled  first." 

"  You  said  a  fortnight,  and  it  is  three  weeks  to-day,"  ob- 
served Nathalie,  without  heeding  his  remark,  or  the  loud  bene- 
dictions of  the  departing  beggar-woman. 

"  You  welcome  me  with  a  reproach,"  he  said  ;  but  he  knew 
in  his  heart  that  such  reproaches  are  a  welcome.  And  was 
there  not  true  joyous  welcome  in  the  flushed  cheeks  and  laugh- 
ing eyes  that  now  looked  up  into  his  face  ? 

'•Petite,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  "you  have  stipulated  that 
a  certain  circumstance  shall  remain  a  profound  secret  to  every 
human  being  with  the  exception  of  my  discreet  aunt.  But  if 
we  go  in  together,  and  you  keep  looking  up  with  that  smiling, 
treacherous  face,  I  fear  much  that  the  great  mystery,  and  of 
course  not  a  soul  in  the  chateau  suspects  any  thing  of  the 
kind,  will  be  betrayed.  Had  you  not,  therefore,  better  go  in 
first?" 


390 


NATHALIE. 


Nathalie  drew  herself  up  with  an  offended  air.  She  did 
not  know  what  Monsieur  de  Sainville  meant.  Sljc  was  not 
going  to  the  chateau  at  all.  She  was  taking  a  walk  in  the 
countr}^  and  begging  to  be  remembered  to  Madame  de  Sain- 
ville, she  bade  him  good  evening,  and  congratulated  him  on  his 
.safe  return. 

He  saw  her  depart  with  a  secure  smile  that  piqued  her. 
She  pretended  to  walk  on,  then  suddenly  retraced  her  steps 
along  the  high  wall  that  inclosed  the  garden  and  grounds  of 
the  chateau,  until  she  came  to  a  side-door,  of  which  Aunt  Kade- 
gonde  had  given  her  a  key,  which  she  now  put  in  with  a  smile 
at  her  ruse  j  but  for  once  the  door  resisted  ;  it  was  bolted  with- 
in. She  tried  again  ;  the  bolt  was  withdrawn,  the  door  opened, 
and  there  stood  Monsieur  de  Sainville  smiling  at  her  vexation. 

'•Well,  what  about  it?"  she  rather  sharply  said. 

"  Nothing,"  he  quietly  replied. 

She  condescended  to  enter,  take  his  arm,  and  walk  down 
one  of  the  alleys  with  him. 

He  had  soon  appeased  her.  This  evening  time  was  so 
pleasant,  and  he  seemed  in  so  genial  and  happy  a  mood.  He 
was  full  of  projects  for  the  future.  Of  pleasant  excursions  to 
the  south  of  France;  of  home  pleasures,  not  less  delightful: 
besides,  was  he  not  going  to  resign  the  empire  of  the  green- 
house to  her,  and  to  build  her  an  aviary  ? 

"All  of  which  will  help  to  empty  your  purse,"  said  Natha- 
lie, looking  delighted,  however. 

"Wise  remark!  Ajjropos :  do  you  often  dispense  charity 
so  freely  as  this  evening?  Do  you  know  how  much  you  gave 
the  lady  in  the  ragged  cloak  ?" 

"  I  neither  know  nor  care  how  much  it  was ;  I  am  sure  she 
needed  it.  Her  husband  was  killed  in  Algiers ;  her  eldest  son 
died  of  fever;  her  daughter  is  blind;  her  three  younger  chil- 
dren are  lying  ill  at  home  with  the  measles ;  and  she  herself  is 
lame^  as  you  could  see." 

"  I  saw.  Petite,  that  she  went  off  very  nimbly ;  but  no  mat- 
ter, I  am  glad  it  was  my  purse  suffered,  not  your  little  purse, 
my  child." 

"  Oh.  but  I  have  got  money  in  my  little  purse !"  said 
Nathalie,  rather  nettled. 

"  Indeed  !" 

"Yes,  indeed!  I  was  very  economical  at  Mademoiselle 
Dantin's.and  I  saved  three  hundred  and  thirty-five  francs." 

Monsieur  do  Sainville  looked  down  at  the  possessor  of  three 


NATHALIE.  391 

hundred  and  thirty-five  francs  witli  a  kind  smile,  and  again 
said  "  Indeed  !" 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  Do  not  think,  however,  you  will  make  nie 
fancy  you  consider  it  so  much ;  I  know  you  do  not.  But 
what  need  I  care  ?  This  garden  is  very  pleasant ;  the  grounds 
are  lovely ;  the  chateau  is  a  rare  old  place  ;  and  poor  girl  as  I 
am  now,  they  will  all  be  mine  some  day.  I  like  the  thought 
that  every  thing  is  to  come  to  me  through  you :  it  seems  plea- 
sant to  be  mistress,  because  you  are  master." 

"  And  it  is  kind  and  frank  of  you  to  say  so,  Petite,"  said 
he,  stopping  short  to  look  at  her. 

"  The  most  agreeable  thought  of  all,"  she  continued,  with- 
out heeding  this,  "  is  that  you  will  go  away  so  often." 

"  What  ?" 

'•  Yes,  it  will  be  so  pleasant  when  you  return." 

She  spoke  unhesitatingly,  for  though  she  was  shy  enough 
of  a  caress,  she  was  not  so  of  speech,  as  free  and  open  as  her 
heart.  He  took  both  her  hands,  and  stood  holding  them  in 
his,  and  looking  down  at  her  with  evident  emotion. 

"  Petite,"  said  he,  "  you  have,  thank  heaven,  too  little  expe- 
rience to  know  the  delightful  flattery  of  such  language.  You 
do  not  know  there  is  nothing  so  delightful  in  this  world  as  the 
happy  smiling  face  that  welcomes  our  return' — because — alas 
— there  is  nothing  so  rare.  Oh !  Petite,  my  child,  my  dar- 
ling, always  greet  me  with  that  face  which  looked  up  into  mine 
this  evening." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  brow,  and  that  with  so  much 
tenderness  of  the  heart,  so  little  of  the  lover's  passion,  that 
Bhe  forgave  the  caress.  She  felt  very  happy  ;  she  said  so,  add- 
ing, with  a  smile : — 

"  And  this  will  last  for  ever,  will  it  not  ?" 

His  face  became  obscured  ;  he  did  not  answer. 

"  It  will  last  for  ever  ?"  she  repeated  inquiringly. 

"  For  ever  !"  he  echoed  ;  "  what  has  bi'ought  up  that  un- 
lucky word,  Petite  ?" 

But  she  asked  again  if  it  would  not  last  for  ever? 

"  What  is  there  lasts  for  ever  in  this  world  ?"  he  answer- 
jd,  after  a  pause. 

"  By  for  ever,  I  mean  as  long  as  life." 

"  And,  child-like,  call  our  miserable  little  existence — eter- 
nity !  Do  you  remember  the  day  on  which  you  said  you  did 
not  see  why  life  should  not  endure  for  ever  V 

'•  Yes,  but  that  is  not  the  question.  Will  you  love  me  for 
ever  ?" 


392  NATHALIE. 

He  siiently  smoothed  away  the  hair  from  her  brow — a  ca 
rcss  familiar  to  him.  She  repeated  her  question  to  him  with 
an  anxious  look.  He  smiled,  and  asked,  "  If  for  ever  was  not 
a  very  long  time?" 

But  she  shook  her  head  :  "  She  would  have  an  answer." 

"  And  vows  too,  he  supposed." 

"  No,  she  did  not  care  for  vows  ;  she  only  wanted  a  plain 
answei  to  a  plain  question." 

"You  shall  have  your  wish,"  he  replied,  rather  sadly. 
'•But,  oh  !  why  do  you  long  for  the  sad  knowledge  of  good  and 
evil?  Without  the  apple  looks  fair  and  tempting,  witlv.n  it  i? 
bitter  as  ashes." 

"What  do  you  call  the  knowledge  of  good  i.nd  evil?' 
gravely  asked  Nathalie. 

"  Every  thing  connected  with  our  perishable  nature,  ani> 
its  affections  more  frail,  more  perishable  still." 

She  colored,  and  said,  "  She  was  sure  that  was  a  very  great 
mistake.  She  knew  that  love  or  affection  was  much,  yes,  much 
more  enduring  than  life."  She  spoke  decisively,  but  lookeo 
doubtful  and  anxious.     He  said  nothing. 

"  Why  do  you  not  believe  this?"  she  at  length  abruptly 
asked. 

"  Because  experience  has  told  me  another  tale.  I  have  no^ 
seen  that  aifection  more  endurinsr  than  life." 

'•  What  matter,  provided  it  exists  ;  provided  we  two  feci 
it,  for  we  shall,  shall  we  not?" 

"  Undoubtedly,  Petite :  we  two  shall  prove  exceptions  to 
the  whole  human  race." 

There  was  raillery  in  his  tone,  but  sadness  in  his  look.  He 
turned  pale. 

'•  How  long  will  you  love  me  ?"  she  asked. 

"  As  long  as  I  can.  Petite.     May  that  be  for  ever !" 

"  I  understand,"  she  said  bitterly.  "  Your  love  is  weak  : 
you  know  it,  and  you  are  too  honorable  to  deceive." 

She  bowed  her  head,  for  tears  had  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  ho,  in  his  gentlest  and  kindest 
tones  ;  "  why,  after  making  me  tell  you  such  bitter  truths,  are 
you  so  unjust?  If  I  tell  you  I  do  not  know  hoT  long  my 
love  will  last,  it  is  by  no  means  because  I  think  it  will  be 
brief,  but  because  I  really  do  not  know  ;  such  is  the  condition 
of  humanity.  May  it  last  for  ever  !  Many  ways  of  happiness 
have  been  discovered  by  man,  but  all  agree  there  is  none  so 
pleasant  as  loving  and  being  loved.     I  pretend  not  to  wisdom 


KAtllALIE.  393 

above  my  race  ;  let  this  happiness  but  be  mine,  and  I  am  con 
tent ;  believe  me,  I  shall  do  all  I  can  to  preserve  it.  Alas  ' 
Petite ;  -who  knows  if  it  is  not  your  heart  that  satiety  shall 
first  enter?  You  look  incredulous  and  indignant.  Then 
question  me  no  more ;  keep  your  curious  restless  mind  quiet, 
you  little  daughter  of  Eve ;  it  may  all  be  as  you  say.  Be- 
sides, do  not  sages  declare  that  when  love  takes  flight,  sober 
friendship,  who  has  no  such  airy  wings,  comes  and  settles 
down  in  his  place  ?" 

Nathalie  smiled  disdainfully.  . 

"  I  scorn  such  a  hope,"  she  said,  indignantly  ;  '•  friendship 
after  love  I  I  would  as  soon  have  winter  after  spring  !  Be- 
sides, how  can  one  have  faith  in  a  feeling  that  rests  on  the  ruin 
of  another  feeling  ?" 

"  It  may  not  be  wise  to  say  so,"  replied  M©fflsieur  de  Sain- 
ville,  "  and  yet  I  agree  with  you  there.  No  ;  when  love  is 
dead  I  would  have  him  buried,  not  resuscitated  under  so  cold 
a  guise." 

"  But  why  must  love  die  ?"  she  despondingly  asked. 

"  Because,  I  suppose,  of  humanity's  imperfections.  But, 
child,  why  trouble  your  little  head  with  such  things  1  In  all 
conscience,  have  you  not  time  enough  for  doubt  and  sorrow  1 
Love  is  the  creed  of  youth,  and  faith  the  daily  bread  of  thai 
religion  of  the  heart.  Deem  your  love  immortal  if  you  will, 
you  shall  not  find  mine  less  fervent  or  true  for  all  his  mortality. 
The  freshness  of  morning  is  around  you  still,  and  you  stand  on 
the  dawn  of  your  long  summer's  day.  Imagine  it  endless ;  and 
though  it  be  but  a  dream,  I,  who  have  almost  passed  the  noon- 
day's heat,  will  not  quarrel  with  the  child-like  faith.  Be  happy 
in  your  ignorance,  my  knowledge  shall  not  deprive  me  of  all 
joy.  The  thought  of  evening's  setting  sun  need  not  mar  the 
gladness  of  present  hours.  Is  life  unavoidably  embittered  by 
the  thought  of  death  ?  Is  there  no  happiness  but  that  which 
is  eternal ?" 

"  I  wish  we  had  the  same  faith,"  sorrowfully  said  Nathalie, 
••  I  wish  that  our  feelings  were  more  in  unison ;  I  wish — do  not 
misunderstand  me  if  I  say  so — that  we  were  not  divided  by  so 
many  years  ;  and  the  sad  knowledge  which  it  seems  they  give ; 
I  wish  that  I  were  an  older  woman,  or  you  a  younger  man." 

She  hesitated  a  little,  and  looked  up  to  see  if  he  were  not 
offended,  but  he  only  smiled : — 

"  You  an  older  woman  and  I  a  younger  man  !  Well,  child^ 
you  have  curious  fancies.     What  a  demure  little  lady  of  thirty 

17* 


S94  NATHALIE. 

you  would  make ;  and  yet — see  mj  bad  taste — I  prefer  yotl 
thus.  I  would  even,  if  this  were  a  power  given  to  mortal  man 
fix  you  for  ever,  as  I  see  you  at  this  moment,  and  enchant  you 
into  a  vision  of  that  perpetual  youth  which  becomes  you  so  well. 
I  was  made  to  be  old  and  grave,  but  nature  fashioned  you  in 
tho  morning,  and  verily  one  cannot  look  at  you  without  seeing 
that  the  freshness  of  the  early  hour  lingers  around  you  still. 
Oh  !  wish  not  to  grow  old  ;  time  will  overtake  you  but  too 
soon..  As  for  the  other  wish,  of  my  being  a  younger  man  ;  let 
me  tell  you,  that  if  I  had  seen  you  in  my  youth,  I  should  not 
have  loved  you." 

"  You  would  not  ?"  said  Nathalie,  much  surprised. 

"  No,  indeed  I  would  not." 

"  And  why  so  ?"  she  asked,  a  little  nettled. 

"  Because  you  are  not  the  beau  ideal  of  my  youth." 

"  Pray,  what  was  the  heait  ideal  of  your  youth  V 

"  A  very  different  woman  from  you,  my  little  Nathalie  ;  for 
she  was  fair  and  gentle  as  a  lily  ;  a  sinless  being,  scarcely  tread- 
ing this  earth  of  ours." 

"  Would  you  love  this  angel  lady  now  ?" 

"  Love  a  being  so  cold  and  so  unearthly  ?    No." 

Every  feature  of  Nathalie  beamed  as  she  heard  this  decisive 
reply.     But  she  assumed  a  grave  air. 

"It  seems,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  very  faulty." 

"  You  are  very  human." 

"And  not  ideal?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  What  is  an  ideal  woman  ?  The  pale 
sickly  creation  of  some  mad  youth,  or  still  more  crazy  poet :  a 
shilling  snow-wreath." 

"  And  what  am  I  ?" 

"  A  streak  of  sunshine  to  gladden  the  sight  and  warm  the 
heart;  but  no,  I  will  not  be  poetical ;  you  are  simply  a  being 
of  our  perishable  earth,  with  a  temper  like  an  April  day,  but  a 
heart  of  the  most  honest  and  true." 

A  blush  of  pleasure  stole  over  Nathalie's  cheek,  and  she 
turned  her  head  away  with  a  smile,  but  she  soon  looked  round 
»gain. 

"  You  like  me  thus  ?"  she  said. 

"  Precisely  ;  I  love  you  thus." 

"  A  little  ?" 

"  Very  much,  Petite." 

"  And  you  will  love  me  for  ever,  will  you  not?" 

She  had  come  back  again  to  the  old  point  with  the  caressing 


NA  niALIE.  395 

persistency  of  a  child  that  will  not  be  denied.  He  looked  at 
her  ;  she  tried  to  seem  indifferent,  but  her  heart  was  in  his 
answer ;  he  felt  it,  and  for  that  moment  also  felt  as  if  he  could 
turn  believer  in  her  creed  of  love's  eternity. 

"  Yes,  for  ever,"  he  answered. 

Her  face  lit  up,  and  she  smiled  joyously  ;  but  checking  tho 
feeling,  she  said,  with  a  wistful  look : — 

"  You  only  say  that  to  please  me." 

"  Indeed  I  do  not,"  he  replied,  bending  a  fond  glance  over 
her  flushed  face  as  he  felt  in  his  heart  how  delightful  it  was  tc 
be  thus  loved  ;  "  no,  indeed  I  do  not,  for  I  verily  believe,  my 
poor  child,  that  could  I  cease  to  feel  for  thee  as  I  do  now,  my 
heart,  unable  to  leave  oiF,  or  shut  thee  out,  would  surely  find 
some  other  better  way  of  loving  thee  still." 

A  radiant  smile  played  on  Nathalie's  parted  lips. 

"  Let  the  future  shift  for  itself,"  she  said,  in  a  low  feverish 
tone  ;  "  I  feel  here  that  you  must  always  love  me." 

'•  She  pressed  her  clasped  hands  to  her  beating  heart,  and 
bowed  her  face  before  his  look.  An  irresistible  impulse  made 
him  strain  her  more  closely  to  him,  and  calling  her  '•  his  mis- 
tress, his  wife,  his  child ;  all  that  was  delightful,  dear,  and 
precious ;"  vow  in  impassioned  language  to  love  her  for  ever. 

They  went  in.  The  sun  had  set ;  evening  was  closing  in 
around  them  with  its  soft  gray  light.  Nathalie  heeded  it  not ; 
for  in  her  heart  there  shone  a  light  more  warm,  fervent,  and 
bright  than  earthly  day  ever  gave.  She  was  that  whole  even- 
ing so  enchanting  and  bewitching,  that  her  grave  lover  for  once 
forgot  his  prudence  and  worldly  knowledge  ;  he  yielded  indeed 
so  freely  to  the  spells  cast  around  him,  that  his  aunt,  who  look- 
ed on  with  silent  wonder,  warningly  whispered  to  Nathalie  as 
they  parted : 

"  Take  care.  Petite,  it  is  not  natural  to  see  Armand  so  ;  take 
care." 

"  Be  quite  easy,"  said  Nathalie,  with  a  delighted  glance. 

Indeed  she  looked  so  joyous  on  returning  home,  that  Rose 
could  not  help  asking  her  what  was  the  matter. 

"  The  matter  is,  that  I  am  a  great  deal  too  happy.  Rose,  a 
great  deal  too  happy ;"  she  kissed  her  sister  fervently  as  she 
epoke. 

But  when  she  next  met  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  Nathalie 
was  much  chagrined  to  perceive  that  his  momentary  weakness 
had  wholly  vanished.  He  was  kind  and  aifectionate  ;  but  be 
was  once  more  the  serious  self-possessed  man  of  experience, 


396 


■vatiialif;. 


who  condescended  to  be  in  love  with  the  heedless  girl  ol 
eighteen.  The  gravity  of  his  tenderness  vexed  and  discon- 
certed her :  she  .tried  to  bring  hack  the  mood  in  which  they 
had  parted,  and  failed.  She  felt  indignant:  the  result  was  a 
little  quarrel — their  first  as  lovers.  For  three  days  she  would 
not  go  to  the  chateau.  On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  she 
sat  with  her  sister  in  their  little  room,  when  Kose,  taking  up 
from  the  table  the  flowers  Nathalie  had  received  that  same 
morning,  reproved  her  for  leaving  them  there  to  wither. 

'•  I  forgot  them,  Rose,"  she  replied  ;  "besides,  what  matter? 
According  to  his  own  confession  his  love  is  as  perishable  and 
will  fade  as  soon  as  his  gifts." 

Rose  was  untying  the  flowers;  a  letter  hidden  amongst 
thorn  fell  down  on  the  floor  at  her  feet.  Nathalie  saw  .it, 
snatched  it  up  with  the  quickness  of  thought,  broke  the  seal, 
and  drew  near  the  light  to  read.  The  letter  was  long.  When 
she  had  concluded  she  held  it  awhile  in  her  hand,  then  gave  it 
to  Rose,  saying,  without  looking  at  her  : 

'•I  have  done  him  wrong;  you  must  read  this — his  justi- 
fication." 

Rose  silently  took  the  letter  ;  it  was  as  follows — 

"  Nathalie,  do  not  doubt  my  aff"ection.     You  torment  your 
self  and  give  me  much  pain,  very  uselessly.    Recollect  that  when 
I  have  said  '  I  love  you,'  I  have  said  all  in  three  words — 
pages  could  express  no  more. 

'• '  We  are  so  difi'erent !'  you  despondingly  said  the  other 
evening.  But  is  not  love  the  child  of  contradictions?  Do  you 
imagine  I  could  have  loved  a  woman  of  years  nearer  to  mine, 
like  me  rid  of  illusions  and  hope  ?  Indeed,  I  could  not.  Our 
individual  experience  must  necessarily  have  been  similar ;  our 
looks,  after  meeting  with  sadness  and  mistrust,  would  not 
have  sought  to  meet  again.     But  in  you  I  seek  and  still  find 

what  is  lost  to  me  for  ever,  and  what  is,   therefore,  so  dear 

the  faith  and  freshness  of  youth. 

"  From  the  moment  that  you  entered  this  house,  I  felt  that 
a  change  I  could  not  define  had  nevertheless  taken  place  in  all 
around  me. 

"  I  believe  that  many  cold  and  severe-looking  men  like  me, 
are  not  so  averse  to  the  society  of  women  as  they  are  con- 
sidered to  be.  I  certainly  have  not  had  during  the  course  of 
an  active  and  unsettled  life  much  leisure  to  indulge  in  female 
society,  which  is  essentially  a  luxury,  as  it  implies  a  wonderful 
loss  of  time,  and  as  constant  attention  is  needed  in  order  not 


RATIIALIE.  397 

to  yield  to  its  cnervatiDg'  influence ;  but  I  have  alwaj-s  looked 
forward  with  pleasure  to  the  time  when  I  should  be  yf'ith.  my 
sister  and  aunt.     The  pleasure  w»*ich  men  take  in  the  society 
of  women  may  be  selfish,  but   it  is  very  real.     It  is  soothing 
after  the  vexing  storms  of  life  to  sink  down  into  domestic  re- 
pose and  become  the  centre   of  a  peaceful  home.     The  antici- 
pation pleased  me,  especially  as  I  had  not  run  the  risk — always 
a  dangerous  one  —  of   marriage.      But  when   I  returned  to 
France,  when  I  summoned  my  aunt  and  sister  to  Sainville,  I 
found  that  this  destiny  was  not  to  be  mine.     In  our  first  inter- 
view I  saw  that  my  poor  aunt  could  neither  forget  nor  forgive 
the  past,  and  I   required  no  second  meeting  to  perceive  that 
the  proud  and  worldly  woman  who  still  called  me  brother,  was 
not,  however,  the   once   kind    and    affectionate  sister  of  my 
youth.     Time  had  done  its  work  with  both — I  could  not  blame 
them  ;  was  I  myself  unchanged  ?    Did  I  not  see  very  Avell  that 
my  coldness  and  severity  repelled    every  one    around    me  ? 
Nevertheless,  I  felt  disappointed  ;  ennui  soon  overtook  me ;  I 
resolved  to  travel  over  Europe.     I  had  pi'ojected  a  long  expe- 
dition when  the  indiscretion  and  insolence  of  Charles  com- 
pelled me  to  offer  you  a  home  in  Sainville.     I  say  compelled, 
because  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  not  in  honor  do  less.    At 
first  I  felt  annoyed.     '  What  on  earth   shall  I   do  with  this 
girl  V     I  thought,  for  I  have  my  idea  of  responsibilities,  and 
when  her  son  was  concerned,  I  would  not  trust  Madame  Mar- 
ceau.     Wishing  to  explain  all  and  put  you  on  your  guard,  I 
resolved  to  see  you  alone.     I  felt  also  some  curiosity  to  find 
out  what  sort  of  a  being  you  were.     Thanks  to  my  wandering 
life,  and  to  the  seclusion  in   which  we  keep  our  unmarried 
women,  I  had  only  obtained  very  unsatisfactory  glimpses  of  a 
few  childish  creatures.     It  is  a  great  pity  it  should  be  thus, 
for  surely  there  is  nothing  in  this  world  half  so  charming  as  a 
young  girl,  when  in  the  first  freshness  of  her  j-ears,  feelings, 
and  purity,  she  stands  on  the  threshold  of  life,  innocent  and 
fearless,  with  the  curious  glance  of  an  eager  and  long-captive 
bird,  wondering  where  and  how  far  it  shall  wing  its  flight.     I 
could  scarcely  keep  grave  during  our  first  interview.     You 
were  so  very  peculiar — scmuch  on  the  defensive — so  quick  to 
detect  imaginary  slights,  and  yet  so  ingenuous  and  so  easily 
moved  by  the  least  kindness.     I  saw  that  life  was  teaching 
you  her  hard  lesson,    but    that    even    this   bitter  knowledge 
could  not  subdue  native  pride,  or  impart  acquired  prudence 
True  originality  is    never    destroyed  ;  it    is,  and    remains   a 


S38  watkalie. 

part  of  our  being.  But  what  struck  me  most  then  and  after 
wards,  was  the  simplicity  and  fearlessness  of  your  bearing, 
You  were  frank  and  daring  even  with  me.  In  vain,  in  order 
to  try  you,  I  onee  or  twice  made  myself  stern  and  grave. 
You  seemed  to  see  intuitively  through  the  disguise,  and 
wearied  me  out  by  your  patience. 

'•  Indeed,  Petite,  the  more  I  saw  you,  the  more  you  charmed 
rac.     I  liked  that  look  which  seemed  to  imply  that  with  a  per- 
fect consciousness  of  youth  and  beauty,  you  disclaimed  the 
praise  and  flattery  those  adventitious  charms  so  easily  win  ;  I 
iiked  you  to  be  so  frank  and  daring :  I  liked  your  light,  plea- 
sant voice,  and  cheerful  smile.     When  I  saw  you  at  a  distance, 
lightly  running  down  some  garden  path,  and  seeming  to  enjoy 
so  fuUy  the  freshness  and  verdure  around  you,  I  thought  it  a 
pity  that  the  old  house  and  garden  should  ever  lose  the  grace- 
ful visions  which  had  unexpectedly  dawned  upon  both.     My 
heart  yearned  towards  you  long  before  I  would,  even  to  my- 
self, acknowledge  why ;  but  little  power  has  the  so-called  wis- 
dom of  man  over  that  which  passes  in  his  heart.     When  I 
caught  my  ear  listening  for  your  step,  and  look  abstractedly 
watching  your  every  movement,   I  said  to  myself  :  '  she  is 
young  and  pretty,  and  the  sight  of  youth  and  beauty  is  plea- 
sant ;  but  she  is  such  a  mere  child,  that  I  could  never  love  her 
seriously.'     But  the  strange  mixture  of  the  child's  audacity 
and  of  the  maiden's  shyness  which  then  characterized  your 
bearing   towards  me,  of  alternate  confidence  and  shrinking, 
charmed  me  more  irresistibly  every  time  we  met,  and  I  took 
care  it  should  be  often.     For  now  you  sought,  now  you  shun- 
ned me,  with  all  the  frankness  and  nalveU  of  a  child.     You 
watched  me  with  a  sort  of  curious  glance  that  amused  me  ;  you 
seemed  puEzled  to  make  me  out,  interested  too.     I  thought  it 
was  some  girlish  fancy,  and  allowed  myself  to  be  pleased  with 
it  whilst  I  forbore  to  examine  too  cautiously  why  it  pleased 
me.     '  Not  through  love,'  I  said  to  myself,  and  yet  I  still  de- 
layed fixing  the  day  for  my  intended  journey.     Oh  !  how  grave 
men,  who  deem  themselves  wise,  can,  in  some  things,  be  de- 
ceived like  mere  children. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  week  Madame  Marceau  spent  at 
the  chateau  of  Jussac  ?  Do  you  remember  that  the  second 
.iay  after  she  left.  I  said  to  my  aunt,  '  I  am  going  to  Marmont, 
and  shall  probably  stay  a  fortnight  away  V  You  laid  down 
your  work  on  your  lap  and  looked  up  suddenly— not  at  me,  but 
I  could  see  you  well — with  an  expression  of  so  much  annoy- 


NATHALIE  309 

Rnce  and  regret,  that  I  could  not  mistake  or  misunderstand  it 
One  second  only  did  it  last,  but  I  saw  it  and  felt  its  meaning 
deeply.     Nathalie,  was  I  not  a  sufficiently  kind  brother  and  a 
reasonably  good  nephew?  I  had  drawn  my  aunt  and  sister  from 
an  obscure  poverty  to  restore  them  to  the  wealth  and  station 
of  their  birth.     Little  merit  was  there  in  that,  but  still  I  had 
done  it.     Well,  then,  I  can  assure  you  that  I  might  have  pro- 
posed crossing  the  Atlantic  or  talked  of  a  pedestrian  excursion 
to  China,  without  either  aunt  or  sister  wearing  on  their  fea- 
tures that  simple  expression  of  regret.     But  you,  a  stranger, 
you  whom  I  scarcely  noticed,  you  missed  and  regretted  me. 
Instead  of  remaining  at  Marmont,  I  returned  the  next  day  ;  I 
was  curious  to  see  how  you  would  look.     You  were  in  the  gar- 
den with  my  aunt  at  the  end  of  the  lime-tree  avenue.     You 
sat  on  a  low  stool  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  against  which  you  partly 
leaned.     Your  work  lay  neglected  on  your  lap,  your  hands  were 
clasped  upon  it ;  I  fancied  you  looked  thoughtful.      It  was  a 
bright  evening ;  the  warm  light  of  the  setting  sun  lit  up  the 
whole  avenue,  but  it  fell  with  a  deeper  glow  on  the  spot  where 
you  sat.     As  I  saw  you  there,  with  the  dark  tree  behind  you, 
with  your  white  robe  that  fell  ai-ound  you  in  all  the  modest 
grace  of  woman's  garment,  with  your  downcast  look  and  clasp- 
ed hands,  I  thought  of  an  old  engraving  of  RaiFaelle's  '  Vierge 
au  Palmier '  I  had  seen  years  ago  in  the  course  of  my  northern 
wanderings.     It  had  caught  my  fancy  by  its  southern  grace, 
and  often,  though  I  never  met  with  it  again,  did  the  charming 
figure  rise  in  clear  outlines  before  me.     Little  did  I  suspect 
that  more  delightful  and  living  vision  would  one  day  greet  me 
in  my  own  home.     I  came  along  the  avenue  ;  you  looked  up 
quickly,  almost  joyously,  I  could  not  tell  whether  you  blushed 
or  not,  but  for  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  the  warm  sunlight  had 
fallen  with  a  deeper  and  rosier  glow  upon  your  features,  and  lit 
up  your  eyes  with  a  brighter  radiance.     I  sat  down  near  my 
aunt ;  you  did  not  move  away  ;  I  spoke,  coldly  enough,  I  dare 
say,  but  all  the  time  there  were  strange  tumultuous  feelings  in 
my  heart ;  I  felt,  I  knew  that  I  loved  you,  and  I  said  to  my- 
self that  the  child  who  then  sat  at  my  feet  so  quiet  and  uncon- 
scious, should  one  day  be  my  wife  and  mistress  of  all  around 
her.     I  am  not  of  a  temper  to  fear  or  hesitate  ;  I  knew  you  as 
well  then  as  I  do  now.     What  about  the  diiference  of  years  !  I 
felt  I  could,  because  I  would,  make  you  forget  it ;  you  were 
young,  impressible,  in  the  first  freshness  and  fervor  of  your 
feelings  ;  love  is  an  easy  lesson  then.     I  resolved  that  you 


400  NATHALIE. 

should  love  me  in  spite  of  years,  coldness,  and  severity.  It  is 
an  old  saying  that  no  Sainville  ever  attempted  that  which  he 
did  not  achieve.  It  was  not  faith  in  the  legend  that  led  me, 
but  a  far  surer  knowledge.  None  had  ever  loved  in  vain  but 
those  who  know  not  how  to  love. 

"  You  were  very  charming  and  provoking  ;  easily  irritated, 
but  also  easily  soothed.  I  watched  the  progress  of  an  affection 
of  which  you  were  yourself  unconscious.  I  knew  even  before 
you  told  me,  that  you  did  not  like  Charles,  and  so  far  as  re- 
garded him,  I  therefore  felt  no  scruples.  Nor  did  I  think  it 
wrong  to  keep  you  in  this  state  of  doubt,  ftir  more  delightful 
than  certain  knowledge.  That  evening  when,  as  we  sat  alone  in 
the  garden,  you  took  my  hand  and  raised  it  to  your  lips — lips 
far  too  pure,  my  child,  for  such  homage — thanking  me  so  inno- 
cently for  a  friendship  and  generosity  that  existed  only  in  your 
imagination,  I  had  not  the  heart  to  undeceive  you ;  to  tell  you 
that  I  already  loved  you  with  a  selfish  and  jealous  affection ;  that 
I  wanted  you  for  myself,  and  myself  only,  and  that  I  wished  to 
keep  you  here  until  the  day  came  when  I  might  at  length  take 
you  unto  myself,  and  gather  you  unto  my  heart  for  ever.  And 
yet  I  was  not  without  doubts  and  secret  fears.  That  same 
evening  you  fell  asleep  in  the  little  saloon  ;  my  aunt  too  chose 
to  meditate,  as  she  calls  it.  I  remained  and  watched  you  there 
as  you  slept,  but  not,  perhaps,  with  th*e  thoughts  you  imagine, 
Petite.  You  did  indeed  look  very  pretty  so,  with  your  head 
pillowed  on  the  cushion,  and  your  clasped  hands ;  but  I  did 
not  think  of  that.  I  only  thought  that  thus  seen  in  the  doubt- 
ful light  of  that  quiet  place,  and  in  all  the  repose  of  deepest 
slumber,  you  looked  barely  fifteen.  Never  had  I  seen  you  so 
childish  in  aspect.  It  grieved  me.  What  folly  was  I  on  the 
brink  of  committing  ?  Was  this  the  boasted  wisdom  of  Ar- 
mand  de  Sainville  ?  A  passion  for  a  child  ?  I  was  anxiously 
bending  to  read  more  clearly  the  lines  of  the  face  of  her  to 
whom  I  was  trusting  the  venture  of  my  heart,  when  Madame 
de  Jussac  raised  the  drapery  and  smiled  in  fancied  triumph  at 
my  folly.  She  little  knew  that  at  that  same  moment  I  was 
debating  the  question,  '  Shall  I  or  shall  I  not  give  her  up, 
-ivhilst  it  is  time  yet  V 

_  "  Give  you  up  !  alas,  how  could  I  ?  How  could  I  relin- 
quish her  who,  though  gifted  with  grace  and  beauty,  had  yet 
no  deeper  art  to  win  me  back  from  sudden  coldness  than  to 
Btep  up  to  me  like  a  little  child,  and  say,  'have  I  done  wrong?" 
Oh  !   ray  child,  those  artless  ways  have  put  me  to  sore  triaU 


NATHALIE.  401 

As  you  then  looked  np  into  my  face,  and  as  1  saw  clearly  v/hai 
was  still  dim  and  imperfect  to  you — that  j^ou  loved  me — it  waa 
Liard  to  resist  the  temptation  of  imprinting  on  your  clear  brow 
u  kiss  which  might  have  been  more  fervent,  perhaps,  than  that 
of  a  father,  and  yet,  believe  me,  not  less  pure. 

"  Madame  de  Jussac — thinking  to  convert  me  to  legitimacy, 
through  you,  I  suppose — Carried  you  oflF.  I  took  the  opportu- 
nity to  leave.  I  wanted  to  reflect  and  think — then  act.  I 
could  not  stay  long  away ;  and  time  had  weighed  so  heavily  on 
me  whilst  we  were  apart,  and  I  moreover  saw  you  so  pale  on 
returning,  that  I  resolved  to  make  no  more  such  trials.  A 
change  came  over  you,  then.  You  wrapped  yourself  up  in 
your  woman's  pride  ;  not  repelling,  but  disdaining  to  seek.  I 
guessed  why,  and  when  I  perceived  the  change  a  word  or  look 
could  produce,  I  asked  myself  what  other  girl  of  eighteen 
would  blush,  smile,  and  look  more  lovely,  because  I  was  near. 
Oh  !  it  is  a  dangerous  thing  for  a  man  to  meet  daily  a  woman 
by  whom  he  knows  himself  loved;  dangerous  even  if  she  be 
plain,  and  perilous  indeed  when  nature  has  made  her  lovely. 

"  There  must  assuredly  be  something  very  pleasant  in  the 
memory  of  that  time,  since  I  have  thus  allowed  myself  to  be  led 
on.  Surely  I  need  say  no  more,  and  your  fears  and  doubt.s 
are  allayed  ?  I  have  shown  you  how  and  why  I  love  you  ;  1 
am  of  no  inconstant  temper  ;  but  though  I  have  never  been  the 
first  to  change  towards  those  whom  I  once  loved,  I  know  that 
vows  have  no  power  over  the  heart.  They  can  bind  us  to 
duties,  not,  alas  !  to  feelings.  "Would  you  charm  me  for  ever, 
then  be  for  ever  what  you  are  to-day.  Mind,  I  speak  not  of 
beauty,  but  of  that  soft  yet  subtle  spell  which  I  felt  in  our  first 
meeting,  when  you  stood  before  me  modest,  fearless,  and  met 
my  look  with  a  frankness  so  bewitching,  and,  forgive  me  for 
saying  it,  so  rare  in  woman.  Oh  !  Nathalie,  do  not  break  that 
spell  by  doubt  or  mistrust.  When  we  wish  to  drink  of  some 
pure  draught,  and  to  behold  ourselves  as  wo  once  have  been, 
we  do  not  seek  the  troubled  stream  which  has  made  its  way 
among  the  haunts  of  men,  but  the  young,  pui'e,  and  clear  waters 
hidden  in  the  quiet  valley,  and  which  have,  as  yet,  only  reflect- 
ed the  serene  summer  sky.  You  are  to  me  that  pleasant  and 
cooling  draught ;  my  soul,  long  parched  with  this  world's  tur- 
moil and  fever,  turns  towards  you,  and  delights  in  your  purity 
and  freshness.  For  heaven's  sake,  do  not  seek  to  be  too  wise, 
or  to  taste  too  early  of  the  bitter  cup  of  experience.  Oh  !  if 
you  can,  keep  your  soul  as  fresh  as  the  pure  bloom  on  youi 
cheek." 


IC2  NATHALIE. 

Rose,  after  having  attentively  read  this  letter,  folded  it  up 
and  silently  handed  it  to  her  sister. 

"  Well,"  said   Nathalie,  eagerly  looking  up  into  her  face, 
"  he  loves  me,  does  he  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  loves  you." 

"  Then  why  look  so  grave  ?" 

"  Because,  alas  !  this  grave,  wise  Monsieur  de  Sainvilh 
loves  you  so  unwisely." 

Rose  spoke  sadly  ;  but  a  bright  triumphant  smile  lit  up  tho 
features  of  Nathalie. 

"  Unwisely  !"  she  echoed  ;  '•  let  him.  Rose.  Yes,  let  him, 
60  sedate  and  so  grave,  submit  to  this  folly  of  the  heart?  Come, 
what  else  do  you  object  to  ?" 

'•  To  his  loving  you  with  so  much  passion,  and  therefore 
witri  so  little  reason,"  replied  Rose,  with  unaltered  seriousness. 

'•  Passion  !  what  do  you  know  about  passion,  Rose?  And 
yet  you  know  many  things.  How  can  you  tell  that  he  loves 
me  thus?     What  was  it  in  his  letter  made  you  think  so?" 

"  Every  thing.  Oh  !  child,  he  does  not  love  you  as  a  man 
should  love  his  wife,  as  the  future  companion  of  his  existence, 
the  future  mother  of  his  children,  but  as  a  man  loves  his  mis- 
tress. Do  not  look  so  indignant !  I  feel  quite  confident  that 
you  will  be  his  legal  wife ;  but  will  you  be  his  wife  in  the  true 
and  holy  sense  of  that  wcrd?  He  is  fond  of  you  ;  he  will  be 
prodigal  of  gifts  to  her  he  loves ;  it  will  be  his  delight  to  be 
near  her  and  feel  that  she  is  his ;  to  provoke  her — she  is  easily 
provoked — and  soothe  her  again,  an  art  which  he  seemingly 
possesses,  and  is  well  conscious  of  possessing  ;  he  will  have  kind 
words  and  kinder  caresses.  But  she  will  only  be  his  toy,  his 
plaything  ;  the  charm  of  his  light  hours,  not  his  companion  and 
friend.  Not  her  with  whom  he  would  take  the  great  journey 
of  immortality ;  the  being  to  guide  in  the  path  of  right ;  to 
check  from  wrong.  What  does  he  mean  by  asking  you  to  re- 
main as  you  are?  Does  not  the  mind  grow  old?  Lie  not 
life's  saddest  knowledge  and  most  bitter  thoughts  often  hid 
beneath  the  clear  brow  of  youth  ?  Must  not  the  truest  heart 
lose  its  first  purity  and  early  freshness  long  before  it  may  cease 
to  beat  ?  And  I  who  thought  that  he  would  love  you  with  a 
quiet,  fatherly  affection  !  But  time  it  seems  has  not  that  pow- 
er over  the  heart,  its  passions,  feelings,  and  desires,  which  I 
fancied.  The  folly  of  youth  can  survive  the  teaching  of  expe- 
rience, and  passion  be  strong,  despite  all  the  might  and  wisdom 
of  years." 


NATHALIE.  '103 

"Ob!  Rose,"  exclaimed  her  sister,  '-your  words  delight 
find  torture  me.  His  plaything!  that  was  cruel ;  yet  you  are 
compelled  to  confess  that  he  loves  me — yes,  '  despite  all  the 
might  and  wisdom  of  years.'  " 

"  Does  that  please  you  1  Be  content,  then  ;  for  I  believe 
his  love  to  be  deeper  than  he  hinted,  than  you  believe,  than  he 
himself  suspects.  I  had  heard  that  when  men  like  him  gave 
themselves  up  to  passion,  they  yielded  to  it  more  blindly  than 
in  youth  ;  but  1  hoped  that  he  was  not  of  those.  There  must 
indeed  be  a  strange  spell  on  him,  since  he  loves  your  very  faults. 
He  is  blind  now.  Oh  !  Nathalie,  give  him  not  reason  to  waken 
as  from  a  dream  of  folly." 

Nathalie  smiled  at  her  sister  with  a  bright  trusting  smile, 
which  made  her  look  very  lovely,  and  yet  it  was  not  the  .«niile 
of  conscious  youth  and  beauty. 

"  I  have  no  spell  save  love,"  she  said,  "  but  that  is  a  good 
one.  Oh,  Rose  !  I  will  love  him  so  very  much,  and  so  very 
faithfully,  that,  faulty  as  I  am,  he  must  needs  love  me  for  ever. 
He  likes  me  so ;  ask  me  not  to  change." 

"Is  he  your  conscience?"  asked  Rose,  with  mournful  se- 
verity. "  Oh  !  my  child,  my  child  :  I  fear  for  you.  For,  after 
folly,  comes  injustice.  Why  does  he  encourage  you  in  your 
faults?  Inexperience  is  not  a  merit ;  the  fault  of  giving  hasty 
replies  ought  not  to  be  attractive  to  a  wise  man.  You  are 
capable  of  ardent  afi'ection,  of  devotedness,  courage,  and,  if  need 
were,  heroism ;  for  you  are  a  brave  little  creature.  For  him, 
no  danger  would  scare,  no  misery  would  make  you  faint-hearted. 
You  can  love  fervently — let  him  prize  that.  You  may  lose 
your  beauty,  your  freshness  of  feeling,  your  piquant  vivacity, 
you  will  not  lose  your  generous  nature  and  warm  heart.  Do 
not  persist  in  your  faults  and  weaknesses  to  please  him  ;  he  will 
be  the  first  to  quarrel  with  them.  He  will  ask  you  to  be 
gentle,  submissive,  and  quiet.  He  is  stern  and  severe ;  he  will 
complain  of  your  rebellious  temper — nay,  who  knows  even 
whether  that  very  liveliness  which  now  so  much  charms,  will 
not  end  by  wearying  him?  Well,  what  is  it?"  she  added, 
seeing  that  Nathalie  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  burst 
into  a  flood  of  passionate  tears. 

"  Oh  !  Rose,  you  are  pitiless  !"  exclaimed  the  young  girl, 
looking  up,  her  whole  face  flushed  and  agitated,  her  eyes  glis- 
tening, her  lips  trembling  with  emotion  ;  "  yes,  pitiless  !  else  how 
could  you  even  hint  that  he  might  end  by  wearying  of  me  !  God 
help  me !  All  who  have  any  afi'ection  for  me,  utter  the  same  doubts, 


404  N  iTIIAI.lE. 

and  tell  mc  tlic  same  bitter  story  about  love  aud  life.  I*  is 
all  disappointment,  folly,  and  regret.  This  is  very  cruel.  Tho 
faith  of  youth  should  not  be  so  pitilessly  blighted ;  experience 
can  do  it  no  greater  wrong  than  thus  to  depress  it.  Give  mo, 
if  you  can,  the  cold  wisdom  that  comes  with  years  ;  and,  if  you 
cannot,  oh.!  let  me  remain  foolish  if  you  will,  but  hopeful  and 
trusting." 

She  paced  the  room  up  and  down  with  much  emotion,  then 
suddenly  stopped  short,  shook  away  her  tears,  and  smiled. 

'•  Why,  how  foolish  I  am  !"  she  said,  laughing  at  her  folly  ; 
"  how  very  foolish  !  You  are  good,  Rose  ;  3'ou  mean  well ; 
but  what  do  you  know  about  all  this  ?  If,  from  mere  words 
written  on  a  cold  page,  you  already  think  that  he  loves  me  too 
well,  what  would  you  say  if  you  had  seen  him  bending  a  face, 
flushed  and  agitated  with  emotion,  over  her  whom  he  calls  his 
own  Petite  ?  If  you  had  heard  him,  in  a  voice  tremulous  with 
ill-repressed  feeling,  telling  her  how  much,  how  very  much  he 
loved  her  ?  Oh  !  Hose ;  you  could  then  no  more  doubt  him 
than  I  do,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  and  speaking  in  her  fervent 
and  thrilling  tones  of  triumphant  faith. 

She  looked  so  proudly  handsome,  standing  thus  in  the 
centre  of  the  ill-lit  room,  with  the  light  of  youth's  fervent 
hope  in  her  eyes,  and  its  radiant  smile  on  her  lips,  that  Rose 
forgot  her  wisdom,  and  exclaimed  admiringly : 

"  I  wish  he  saw  you  now." 

Nathalie  laughed,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean.  Rose ;  but  it  is  not  that  I  trust 
to,  it  is  not  that.  Listen,"  she  added,  taking  her  sister's 
hand,  and  pressing  it  to  her  heart ;  "  I  feel  here  a  love  which 
can  subdue  all  his  indifference  and  all  his  pride.  Let  him  love 
me  as  he  likes :  as  friend,  companion,  mistress,  or  wife,  I  care 
not ;  but  he  shall,  he  must  love  on.  I  tell  you  I  know  his 
love  is  deep  and  true ;  besides,"  she  added,  laying  her  fore- 
finger on  her  forehead,  and  speaking  in  a  lower  tone,  "  I  ahall 
trf " 

"What?"  cried  Rose. 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Natlialie,  with  a  smile. 


NATHALIE.  405 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


Nathalie  was  meditating  experiments — always  dangerous 
things  ;  in  her  case  doubly  dangerous.  Her  first  experiment 
was  viery  mild.  She  laughingly  repeated  to  Monsieur  de 
Sainville  the  substance  of  the  remarks  made  by  Rose.  He 
did  not  seem  offended,  but  was  evidently  annoyed.  He 
frowned  and  fidgetted  on  his  seat. 

"  Your  sister  means  well,"  said  he,  '•  and  she  is  verj'  pro- 
perly anxious  about  your  happiness  ;  but  she  is  completely  in 
error.  Women  neither  know  nor  understand  the  sort  of  affec- 
tion a  man  feels  ;  it  is  that  mistake  which  often  makes  them 
and  their  husbands  so  very  wretched.  They  have  on  that 
subject  the  most  extraordinary  scruples  and  whims  which  it  is 
possible  to  conceive.  Be  wiser  than  your  sex.  Ask  not  too 
curiously  how  and  why  you  are  loved!  Love  is  not  a  theme  to 
be  demonstrated.  All  that  a  woman  has  a  right  to  require  of 
a  man  is  that  he  should  feel  a  true  and  honorable  affection  ; 
but  to  wish  to  know  according  to  what  exact  manner  and  mea- 
sure he  loves  her,  is  to  carry  the  Evelike  spirit  of  analysis  and 
inquiry  rather  fai-." 

"  But  Rose  says  that  my  quick  temper  will  vex  and  weary 
you,"  urged  Nathalie,  with  a  keen  look. 

"  Oh !  does  she  ?"  he  replied,  stroking  her  hair,  with  a 
smile. 

He  said  no  more ;  but  Nathalie  did  not  like  his  smile  ;  it 
was  kind,  but  perfectly  secure.  She  thought  it  implied  a  quiet 
consciousness  of  that  superior  mind  and  will,  which  give  to  the 
possessor  the  power  of  subduing  temper,  and  enforcing  obe- 
dience ;  a  power  she  had  so  often  seen  exercised  by  Monsieur 
de  Sainville  on  all  around  him.  She  felt  nettled  at  the  securi- 
ty he  manifested.  "  Does  he  imagine,"  she  thought,  "  that  he 
can  sway  me  as  he  likes,  and  that  I  shall  not  so  much  as  have 
the  power  of  disturbing  that  unruffled  calmness  of  his  ?" 

She  found  a  dangerous  pleasure  in  the  idea  of  convincing 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  that  such  was  not  the  case  ;  that  when 
ehe  was  concerned,  he  was  not  quite  so  much  master  of  his  feel- 
ings as  he  seemed  to  imagine.  For  a  while  indeed  she  confined 
herself  to  the  wish,  and  matters  went  on  very  smoothly ;  but 
courtships  are  proverbially  stormy,  and  though  that  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville  was  at  first  made  up  of  dew  and  sunshine  — 


406  NATHALIE. 

morning  storms  are  rare — yet  as  it  progressed  and  reached  its 
noon,  the  clouds  which -had  long  been  threatening,  suddenly 
broke  forth. 

Monsieur  do  Sainville  had  been  romantic  in  youth,  but  he 
was  so  no  longer.  He  loved  Nathalie  more  than  she  thought, 
more  than  he  would  have  cared  to  confess,  but  not,  to  say  the 
truth,  very  poetically.  He  beheld  in  her  no  divinity,  but  a 
most  enchanting  mortal ;  no  ideal  being,  but  a  delightful  girl, 
whose  youth,  beauty,  vivacity,  and  warm  heart  were  a  sufficient- 
ly charming  reality  not  to  need  the  illusions  of  fancy.  The 
affectionate  familiarity  of  his  addresses  showed  exactly  the  na- 
ture of  his  feelings,  and  also  made  Nathalie  feel  that  her  sis- 
ter's definition  of  his  love  was  on  the  whole  sufficiently  cor- 
rect. 

He  evidently  looked  forward  with  mingled  impatience  and 
pleasure  to  the  time  when  she  should  be  his  wife.  Every  thing 
in  Sainville  now  bore  a  reference  to  her  presence,  taste  and 
habits.  He  even  spoke  once  or  twice  of  her  attire,  and  pleased 
himself  with  the  idea  "  that  strings  of  pearls  would  look  very 
well  in  her  hair."  That  he  loved  her  very  much  ;  that  he  was 
charmed  at  the  prospect  of  having  her  ever  near  him ;  that  he 
wished  to  gratify  and  indulge  her  as  far  as  his  power  went ; 
that  he  felt  proud  of  her  grace  and  beauty,  was  clear  to  Na- 
thalie, but  this  was  not  all  she  had  hoped  for.  She  had  hoped 
that  the  affection  he  felt  for  her  would  change  Monsieur  de 
Sainville  in  many  things,  whereas,  with  all  his  kindness  and 
affection  to  her,  he  evidently  remained  unaltered  in  every  other 
respect.  She  felt  that  though  she  had  entered  within  the  circle 
in  which  it  was  his  pleasure  to  seclude  himself,  she  had  not  the 
power  of  drawing  him  forth,  or  of  summoning  any  other  by 
her  side ;  it  had  opened  for  her,  but  it  had  also  closed  again. 
And  yet  love  was  said  to  be  all-powerful.  Had  he  passed  the 
age  when  its  spells  work  ?  bitter,  yet  inevitable  thought !  She 
once  fancied  "  all  would  be  right  if  I  only  knew  him  well.  He 
is  a  mystery  of  which  I  have  just  read  the  first  few  pages,  no 
more."  She  often  gazed  on  his  calm  countenance  still  striving 
to  read  the  true  meaning  of  its  pale  and  marble-like  repose. 
Once  when  he  caught  her  eager  look  fastened  on  him,  he  seized 
her  hands,  held  them  firmly  in  one  of  his,  threw  back  his  hair, 
bent  forward,  and,  compelling  her  to  look  him  full  in  the  face, 
more  closely  perhaps  than  observation  strictly  needed,  he  said 
quietly, 

"  Look  and  satisfy  yourself  once  for  all ;  for  you  have  been 
examining  me  very  curiously  of  late,  Petite." 


NATHALIE.  407 

"  Ob,  sir,"  sliG  thought,,  but  she  did  not  say  so,  "lot  rac 
know  you  once  for  all,  and  you  shall  not  catch  me  looking 
again  so  readily." 

Thinking  the  opportunity  good,  howerer,  she  began  ques- 
tioning him  on  various  subjects.  Amongst  other  things,  she 
wished  to  know  why  he  had  delayed  explanation  so  long. 

"  Not  through  caprice  or  unbecoming  vanity,"  he  replied, 
"  but  because  at  my  years  a  bitter  knowledge  has  replaced  the 
impatience  of  youth;  because  I  have  learned  to  know  that  the 
hope  of  happiness  is  often  the  ti'uest  happiness  we  can  pos- 
sess ;  that  the  purest  joy  is  never  so  pure  as  its  desire.  Po  you 
remember  that  day  when  we  met  in  the  green-house,  and  after- 
wards walked  together  ?  When  we  came  to  the  recess  of  the 
sleeping  nymph,  the  words  that  should  have  revealed  all  were 
on  my  lips  ;  they  remained  unuttered.  Why  so  ?  We  stood 
on  that  spot  where,  many  years  before,  I  had  spoken  of  love 
to  Lucile ;  her  image  pale,  lovely,  and  frail,  rose  before  me. 
You  were  young  and  fair  like  her ;  like  her  would  you  too 
prove  a  weak  and  faithless  woman  2  For  a  moment — only  a 
moment,  Petite — T  gave  you  up,  and  ridiculed  the  weaknes.'j 
which  seemed  on  the  verge  of  deluding  me  again.  Should  I, 
in  my  manhood's  maturer  years,  be  mocked  by  the  phantom 
of  a  passion  which  I  had  sworn  to  be  only  a  phantom,  even  in 
the  fervor  of  my  youth  ?  Compassion  for  my  sick  sister,  who 
had  set  her  heart  on  having  Charles  heir  of  my  wealth  and 
name,  had  previously  kept  me  silent,  and  made  me  delay — im- 
prudently. At  first  I  thought  she  saw  nothing — but  women 
have  a  strange  tact  for  detecting  those  things.  I  once  gave 
her  an  opportunity  of  learning  the  truth  from  me ;  she  shrank 
from  it  with  terror.  When  she  sent  for  Charles,  I  resolved  to 
show  no  mercy,  but  she  forestalled  me,  by  declaring  that  she 
wished  you  to  marry  her  son.  I  could  not  in  honor  seek  to 
supplant  my  own  nephew  ;  besides,  I  felt  quite  confident  you 
would  refuse  him.  I  knew,  moreover,  you  would  not  have  long 
to  wait ;  after  you  had  left  the  library,  the  doctor  confirmed 
the  belief  I  felt  much  saddened.  It  was  not  for  the  intrigu- 
ing Madame  Marceau  that  I  mourned,  but  for  Rosalie,  the 
Bister  of  my  youth.  I  confess  that  her  perfidy — a  perfidy  to 
which  you  fell  victim,  my  poor,  candid  child — enabled  me  to 
bear  her  loss  with  due  philosophy ;  and  yet,  in  her  last  hours, 
she  either  repented  or  despaired,  for  she  told  me  all.  and  vnade 
me  promise  never  to  abandon  her  son." 

"  What  do  you  call  all  ?"  quickly  asked  Nathalie. 


403  NATHALIE. 

"  Her  various  and  very  useless  schemes." 

"  And  nothing  else  ?" 

"  Why  yes,  Petite  ;  she  added  that  you  had  confessed  to 
her  a  sort  of  liking  for  her  brother." 

Nathalie  colored  deeply. 

"  Then  why,"  she  asked,  a  little  indignantly,  "  that  disa^. 
greeable  interview  with  her  son?" 

"  Impossible  to  help  it.  He  declared  to  me  you  were 
actually  his  betrothed  ;  his  plan  was  to  have  this  understood, 
and  then  reject  you.  For  I  believe  that  he  ended  by  hating 
you  very  cordially.  It  was  necessary  to  prove  to  him  that  I 
knew  such  was  not  the  case,  and  to  defeat  at  once  his  kind 
scheme.  You  had  been  very  cruelly  used,  my  poor  child,  and 
I  wished  to  avenge  you." 

"  On  whom?"  asked  Nathalie,  smiling. 

"  On  every  one  ;  ah,  even  on  Amanda,  if  she  had  presumed 
to  be  impertinent.  What !  did  she,  indeed  ?"  he  added,  no- 
ticing the  expression  which  came  over  Nathalie's  features. 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  But  your  look  says  yes." 

'•  No  ;  only  I  remember  the  evening  when  she  came  for  the 
vinaigrette." 

"  You  mean  when  she  came  to  see  what  had  brought  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville  back  to  the  room  where  Mademoiselle  Mon- 
tolieu  was  sitting  alone.  My  poor  child,  Amanda  was  not  to 
blame.  Do  you  think  Madame  Marceau  said  to  her,  '  you  shall 
be  a  spy  on  my  brother,  and  on  this  young  girl  with  whom  he 
is  in  love.'  No,  verily.  She  said,  '  Amanda,  I  have  left  my 
vinaigrette  below.'  The  thing  lay  on  the  table  opposite  Aman- 
da, but  she  understood  the  duties  of  her  place  too  well  to  see 
it.  She  went  down,  looked  about,  went  up  again,  and  declared 
that  both  monsieur  and  mademoiselle  had  aided  her  in  her  use- 
less search.  The  mistress  learned  what  she  wished  to  know  ; 
the  attendant  told  what  she  had  been  sent  to  discover ;  the 
thing  was  over.  Of  course  the  vinaigrette  was  discovered  at 
once,  with  many  exclamations  of  surprise  that  it  should  not 
have  been  seen  before.  What,  if  for  this,  and  other  little 
services,  the  mistress  chose  to  make  her  femnie-de-chambre  a 
present  1     Had  she  not  a  perfect  right  to  do  so  ?" 

His  careless  tone  could  not  hide  the  sarcasm  lurking  be- 
neath it. 

"  How  do  you  know  all  this  ?"  asked  Nathalie,  looking  up 
Into  his  face  with  sorrowful  surprise. 


NATHALIE.  409 

"  Very  simply  ;  I  have  not  lived  so  many  years  amongst 
!ncn  and  women  without  knowing  the  ways  of  deceit,  great  and 
email.  I  also  know  that  there  is  this  much  virtue  left  in 
humanity :  what  is  done  remorselessly  is  rarely  confessed  in 
open  speech.  But  surely  you  do  not  feel  any  resentment  for 
that  poor  Amanda,  who  was  naturally  anxious  not  to  lose  a 
good  place.  You  have,  I  am  sure,  forgiven  my  unhappy  sister 
her  treachery,  forgive  also  the  helpless  agent.'" 

"  Very  well,"  abstractedly  said  Nathalie,  who  was  no  longer 
thinking  about  Amanda  ;  "  are  you  forgiving  ?"  she  suddenly 
added. 

"  Not  remarkabl3^  so,"  replied  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  with 
a  peculiar  smile. 

"  And  yet  you  seem  to  take  every  little  treachei-y  so  much 
as  a  matter  of  course." 

"  Habit,"  he  laconically  an-swered. 

"  Then  you  are  not  forgiving?'' 

"  Neither  forgiving  nor  forgetful,  Petite." 

''  Then  you  are  vindictive  ?" 

"  Not  precisely;  since,  if  I  never  have  yet  to  my  knowledge 
forgotten  an  insult,  I  cannot  say,  however,  that  I  have  revenged 
a  wrong." 

"  Because  you  are  so  generous,"  said  she,  brightening. 

He  shook  hiS  head  in  token  of  denial,  but  she  persisted, 
"  It  must  be  generosity." 

"  And  why  not  disdain,  Petite  ?"  he  asked  quietly. 

Her  countenance  fell. 

"  My  poor  child,"  he  gently  resumed,  "  you  think  in  your 
candor,  that  people  still  love  and  hate  in  this  world.  Well, 
they  do.  but  how  rarely.  Hatred  !  there  is  not  energy  enough 
left  for  it  in  our  civilized  society.  You,  with  your  warm  south- 
ern blood,  might  experience  the  feeling,  but  the  mass  know 
nothing  of  it ;  they  give  themselves  up  to  petty  spites,  and 
contemptible  animosities.  Moralists  talk  of  passions  ;  there 
are  no  passions  now  save  the  meaner  ones  ;  the  others  perished 
ages  back.     But  we  will  not  speak  of  ^11  this." 

Nathalie  gave  him  a  mournful  look.  Was  this  his  creed  ? 
And  yet  he  did  not  look  sad.  No  passions  !  then  there  were 
deep  feelings  ! 

"  0/i,  mon  Dicit  /"  she  involuntary  exclaimed.  "  what  is 
Ufo  ?" 

Some  of  the  skeptics  v/ho  hold  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  creed 
18 


410  NATHALIE. 

Bay  a  "jest ;"  but  he  took  a  nobler  and  more  courageous  view 
and  gravely  answered  :  "  A  duty." 

Hard,  however,  is  that  lesson  when  it  first  falls  in  all  its 
reality  upon  the  ear  of  ardent  youth.  If  not  long  before,  Na- 
thalie had  been  called  upon  to  give  the  definitioa  she  now 
asked  of  her  lover,  she  would,  in  the  fervor  of  her  love  and  of 
her  hopeful  nature,  have  replied  :  "  A  delight." 

Ay,  a  delight ;  for  enchanting  and  delicious  are  the  pro 
mises  of  passion,  and  Eden  itself  never  seemed  more  fair  to 
newly  awakened  Eve  than  the  lovely  scenes  and  glimpses  life 
had  opened  to  the  enraptured  gaze  of  Nathalie.  The  trance 
is  generally  brief ;  the  next  phase  is  the  despairing  doubt,  suc- 
ceeded by  disgust  of  all  things,  or  the  calm  resignation  which 
teaches  to  endure  patiently ;  but  this  was  a  bitter  lesson  the 
young  girl  had  never  expected  to  learn  from  her  lover,  and 
which  Monsieur  de  Sainville  had  been  far  from  wishing  to 
teach.     His  evident  skepticism  depressed  her  greatly. 

'•  I  was  not  always  thus,"  he  resumed,  "  I,  too,  have  had 
the  faith  and  divine  dreams  of  youth.  We  all  of  us,  more  or 
less,  enter  active  life  in  the  spirit  of  knight-errantry  ;  to  strug- 
gle, subdue,  and  win.  Oh  !  the  glorious  hopes  that  usher  us 
in ;  the  dreams,  the  visions  that  enchant  this  first  journey,  the 
sylvan  shades,  the  summer  bowers,  the  adventurous  wilds,  and 
caverns  deep — these,  too,  have  their  charm  of  danger — that  lie 
before  us  !  But,  alas  !  the  dreary  time  when  we  see  the  path 
we  must  tread  as  it  really  is  ;  a  barren  waste.  Then,  indeed, 
for  dangers  to  brave,  and  a  struggle  to  win  !" 

"  And  this  is  life  !"  said  Nathalie,  with  deep  sadness. 

"  The  life  of  many  ;  not  of  all ;  your's,  Petite,  shall  know 
nothing  of  all  this.  The  sun  shall  gladden,  and  the  shade 
shelter  you  still ;  yes,  when  you  wish." 

He  spoke  affectionately,  and  Nathalie  understood  the  im- 
plied promise  of  happiness.  But  she  could  not  chase  away  the 
thought : 

"  Oh  !  why  is  he  so  skeptical  ?  why  have  I  no  power  over 
him  for  good'.'" 

He  had  left  her,  and  she  was  sitting  at  the  feet  of  Aunt 
iladegonde,  as  she  again  felt  this  ever-renewing  desire. 

"  Do  you  know,  child,  a  thing  I  have  observed  of  late  ?" 
eaid  the  Canoness,  with  the  suddenness  familiar  to  persons  of 
slow  perception  when  they  happen  to  be  struck  with  something. 

"No,"  abstractedly  said  Nathalie,  "what  is  it?" 


"Why,  Arraand  is  so  much  changed." 


NATHALIE.  41  1 

'•  How  SO  V  asked  Nathalie,  looking  up,  with  immediate 
interest. 

"  I  can  scarcely  tell,  and  yet  he  seems  changed,  since  the 
death  of  our  poor  Rosalie.  He  does  not  seem  so  cold  and  so 
severe  as  he  was ;  there  is  about  hira  something  more  gentle, 
and  more  kind.  He  was  very  much  attached  to  Rosalie.  It  ia 
her  death  that  has  affected  him  thus."' 

"  But  are  you  sure,  quite  sure  of  it  V  asked  Nathalie,  in  & 
low  tone. 

"  My  dear  child,  you  are  very  simple.  Does  my  penetration 
ever  deceive  me ?  Well,  what  is  it?"  she  asked,  as  Nathalie 
rooc,  and  twining  her  arms  around  her  neck,  kissed  her  repeat- 
edly ;  "  you  are  a  dear  child,  no  doubt,  but  why  do  you  kiss 
me?" 

"  Because  you  have  made  me  so  happy,"  replied  Nathalie, 
who  felt  enchanted. 

But  the  very  next  day  destroyed  the  hopeful  dreams  in 
which  she  had  already  been  indulging.  She  found  Aunt  Radc- 
gonde  in  a  very  discontented  mood. 

"It  was  the  old  story  again,"  she  said,  pettishly.  "  Ar- 
mand,  after  being  so  good  and  indulgent,  that  he  forgave,  with- 
out even  a  word,  the  foolish  gardener  who  had  allowed  his 
finest  and  most  expensive  plants  to  die  away,  was  now  dismissing 
Jean,  a  poor  lad  of  eighteen,  no  one  so  much  as  knew  why." 

"  Is  Monsieur  de  Sainville  quite  determined  V  asked  Na- 
thalie. 

''  Of  course  he  is,  Petite ;  I  tell  you  he  is  in  one  of  those 
moods,  when  neither  heaven  nor  earth  could  move  him.  I  saw 
it  in  his  face ;  and  you  know  if  I  am  ever  deceived  in  those 
matters.  It  is  the  story  of  Andre  over  again,  only  that  this 
time  there  is  no  mistake,  and  that  Jean  must  go." 

Nathalie  looked  thoughtful,  and  slightly  excited.  She  was 
meditating  an  experiment  destined  to  test  her  power,  or  rather 
her  influence,  over  Monsieur  de  Sainville.  She  soon  found  a 
pretence  to  leave  Aunt  Radegonde  in  the  garden,  where  they 
were  then  both  sitting,  and  lightly  ran  up  the  lime-tree  aA'^enuc, 
leading  to  the  library.  She  met  Monsieur  de  Sainville  in  tho 
let  of  coming  out. 

"  Where  were  you  running  so  fast  ?"  he  asked,  stopping  her. 

"  To  look  for  you,"'  she  quickly  replied. 

"  Indeed,"  he  answered,  looking  pleased,  and  drawing  lier 
arm  within  his. 

"Yes,  I  want  to  ask  you  for  something." 


812  NATHALIE. 

'•  Ah  !  otherwise  you  would  not  come  running  for  me 
Pray,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  A  favor." 

"  Wonderful !  A  favor  ?  Can  your  pride  actually  stoou 
thus  far  ?"_  _  ^ 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  grant  it." 

"  It  must  be  something  very  unreasonable,  or  utterly  im> 
possible,  if  I  refuse." 

She  stopped  short,  and  looked  up  at  him  fixedly.  There 
was  nothing  like  refusal  in  the  pleased  and  yet  surprised  ex- 
pression of  his  face.     She  smiled,  and  said,  after  a  pause : 

"  Forgive  poor  Jean." 

The  brow  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville  became  suddenly  over- 
cast. 

"  That,"  said  he,  gravely,  "  is  unfortunately  impossible."  - 

'•  Impossible  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Would  I  refuse  you,  otherwise  ?" 

'•  Then  you  refuse  me  ?" 

'•  I  must." 

"  She  colored,  and  made  a  movement  to  leave  her  position 
by  his  side,  but  restraining  herself,  she  said : 

"  He  is  a  civil  lad." 

He  did  not  reply. 

'•  And  his  mother  is  a  very  poor  widow." 

"  And  you  have  been  very  kind  to  her,"  he  said.  "  I  know 
where  her  cottage  stands ;  I  know  that  you  have  gone  in  there, 
often  ;  never  empty-handed,  and  ye\  you  are  not  rich,  Petite." 

"  Those  who  are  rich,  do  not  always  give  most,"  she  replied, 
with  some  asperity. 

"  Is  that  a  hint  to  me  ?  Well,  if  I  have  been  remiss,  you 
shall  be  my  almoner ;  people  will  apply  more  readily  to  you, 
than  to  me,  for  natm-e  has  bestowed  on  you  the  face  of  one  to 
whom  it  is  a  joy  to  give." 

"  And  to  ask,"  replied  Nathalie,  with  significance,  that 
showed  she  was  not  to  be  diverted  from  her  object. 

"  Ask  me  for  any  thing  else,"  he  said,  soothingly  ;  "  ask  me 
to  give  any  thing  you  like  to  Jean's  mother." 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  so  earnest,  that  it  struck  her. 

'•  Why  do  you  dismiss  him?"  she  asked. 

'•  He  has  failed  in  his  duty." 

"  Di.=;obeyed,  I  suppose ;  for  that  I  believe  is  what  you 
aovor  forgive." 

"  No  it  wne  not  lisobcdienca." 


NATHALIE.  413 

"  Well  then,  wliat  did  lie  do  ?" 

"  Take  my  word  for  it.  that  lad  has  deserved  to  lose  his 
place." 

"  Forgive  him,  for  my  sake  1" 

She  spoke  in  her  softest  and  most  winning  tones  ;  and 
looked  up  into  his  face  with  a  beseeching  glance.  He  seemed 
embarrassed,  but  replied  : — • 

"  I  assure  you  it  grieves  me  to  refuse  you  this  " 

'•  Then  you  will  not  forgive  him  ?" 

"  I  cannot." 

''  And  you  will  not  say  why  you  dismiss  him  ?" 

He  remained  silent. 

Nathalie  drew  away  from  him  Avith  flushed  cheeks  and 
kindling  glance. 

'•  You  are  a  tyrant !"  she  exclaimed. 

He  turned  very  pale ;  with  him  the  sign  of  deepest  anger. 
But  she  heeded  it  not.  she  heeded  not  the  darkening  frown  and 
compi-essed  lips  ;  she  was  thoroughly  angered  and  reckless, 
and  entered  the  house  in  her  most  indignant  mood,  re- 
solved to  leave  it  that  very  instant.  In  the  hall  she  met  Jean, 
the  dismissed  servant ;  acting  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment, 
as  usual,  she  emptied  her  purse — it  was  not  a  very  heavy  one — 
into  his  hand,  and  said,  in  a  quick,  excited  tone,  '•  This  is  foi 
your  mother,  Jean  ;  I  am  very  sorry  you  are  going." 

He  looked  very  much  disconcerted. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  truly  good,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  "  and 
I  am  sure  she  has  always  been  so  kind  to  my  mother,  that  I 
feel — but  I  can  assure  mademoiselle,  monsieur  was  quite  mis- 
taken when  he  thought  the  remark  he  overheard  me  making  to 
Andrt  was  intended  as  disrespectful  to  her." 

_  "  A  remark  about  me  !"   exclaimed   Nathalie,  much    sur- 
prised. 

"  I  thought  mademoiselle  knew,"  answered  Jean,  luokmg 
much  more  disconcerted  than  before. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  been  the  cause  of  your  dismissal," 
she  quietly  answered,  and  slowly  returned  to  the  garden. 

This  then  explained  why  Monsieur  de  Sainville  had  refused 
her  request  as  well  as  an  explanation,  which  could  not  but  hurt 
her  feelings ;  and  she  had  called  him  a  tyrant !  She  felt  she 
could  not  be  happy  until  she  had  asked  him  to  forgive  her. 

She  found  him  walking  with  his  aunt  in  the  garden.  He 
looked  grave,  almost  stern,  and  took  no  notice  of  her  approach. 
Nathalie  detected  the  anxious  glance  which  the  Canoness  cast 
on  thera  both.     "  AVhat  shall  I  say  to  him  ?"  she  thought. 


H4  NATHALIE. 

Aunt  lladcgondc  lingered  behind,  and  signed  Nathalie  to 
Bome  to  her. 

"Petite,"  she  whispered  anxiously,  "what  has  happened? 
I  have  not  seen  him  looking  so — no,  not  for  years." 

But  Nathalie  had  seen  him  thus  before.  Yes,  on  the  day 
when  Madame  Marceau  repeated  to  him  that  doubt  on  his 
honor,  which  she  had  uttered  in  a  moment  of  despair,  ho 
looked  thus. 

She  gave  the  Canoness  no  reply ;  there  was  a  fear  at  her 
heart  which  she  would  not  confess,  even  to  herself,  and  yet  her 
look  anxiously  followed  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  who  walked  on 
before  them,  without  once  looking  round. 

"  Go  and  speak  to  him,"  whispered  the  Canoness. 

"  And  say,  like  a  naughty  child  : — I  shall  do  it  no  more," 
disdainfully  replied  Nathalie.  "No,  Marraine,  I  cannot  do 
that." 

"  Do  something.  Petite.  I  am  sure  you  were  in  the  wrong, 
by  your  look.     Go  and  walk  by  him." 

"  And  wait  until  his  lordship  chooses  to  look  down  on  his 
handmaiden !     No." 

"Then  go  and  take  his  arm.  You  are  so  reserved  with 
him  usually,  that  he  must  be  desperately  angry  indeed  if  he 
does  not  consider  this  a  great  favor." 

Nathalie  could  not  repress  a  smile,  but  this,  being  the  most 
daring  counsel,  pleased  her  best ;  she  accordingly  walked^  on 
and  vei-y  deliberately  took  the  arm  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 
His  anger  was  probably  of  the  deepest  dye,  for  though  he  sub- 
mitted to  this  advance,  suggested  by  the  feminine  diplomacy 
of  his  aunt,  who  anxiously  watched  the  result,  he  neither 
turned  nor  looked  towards  Nathalie.  Offended  in  her  turn, 
she  made  a  motion  to  withdraw,  but  he  quickly  detained  her. 
She  gave  him  a  furtive  glance ;  he  looked  as  morose  as  ever, 
but  she  smiled  to  herself  and  thought,  "  You  may  look  as  crosa 
as  you  like ;  but  you  are  not  so  very  angry  after  all." 

"  I  have  been  very  hasty,"  she  said  very  demurely,  "  will 
yovi  forgive  me  ?" 

She  looked  up;  not  one  of  his  stern  features  had  relaxed, 
nor  did  he  seem  in  the  least  mollified  by  her  concession. 
'•  For  what  are  you  apologizing  ?"  he  coldly  asked._ 
"  For  my  inconsiderate  language,"  replied  Nathalie,  some- 
what surprised  at  his  continued  gravity.  He  did  not  answer  ; 
iihe  resumed :  "  I  am  aware  that  I  was  wholly  in  the  wrong. 
I  know  your  motive  for  dismissing  Jean  and  refusing  to  forgive 
him,  as  well  as  if  you  were  to  tell  me." 


NATHALIE.  415 

The  countcnauce  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville  darkened  con- 
siderably. 

"  I  understand,"  said  he,  frigidly,  "  you  apologize  because 
it  is  proved  to  you  that  you  were  in  the  wrong." 

"  And  if  it  were  not  proved  to  me  that  I  was  in  the  wrong, 
how  could  I  apologize  ?"  asked  Nathalie,  who  was  getting  im- 
patient. 

"  You  could  if  you  only  entertained  for  me  a  feeling  you 
evidently  do  not  entertain ;  confidence  in  my  justice  and 
honor." 

He  spoke  with  so  much  severity,  and  had  evidently  been 
so  deeply  hurt  by  her  conduct,  that  Nathalie  could  not  restrain 
her  tears.  He  seemed  touched  by  her  emotion,  and  immedi- 
ately said  in  a.gentler  tone  : 

"  Do  not  think  me  ofi"ended  at  a  few  hasty  words,  however 
harsh,  uttered  in  a  moment  of  passion.  You  have  a  quick 
temper,  I  can  forgive  that ;  I  will  bear  any  thing  from  you  save 
mistrust ;  that  I  seldom  suffer  from  any  one,  and  never  where 
I  love  as  I  love  you,  with  all  the  strength  and  energy  of  my 
nature." 

He  spoke  vehemently,  as  if  carried  away  by  the  impulse  of 
the  moment,  and  with  a  force  of  passion  that  made  the  hearj 
of  Nathalie  beat  rapturously.  She  forgot  her  mistrust  and  his 
anger  ;  she  only  saw  and  felt  that  he  loved  her  as  she  longed 
to  be  loved.  '■  Oh  !"  she  thought  inwardly,  '•  I  did  well  to 
provoke  him,  since  it  has  led  to  this." 

Aunt  Radegonde  now  came  up  ;  she  looktd  at  them  both 
anxiously  ;  the  traces  of  tears  still  lingered  on  Nathalie's 
cheek. 

"  Armand,"  uneasily  said  the  Canoness,  '•  she  is  a  child,  a 
mere  child,  do  not  forget  it." 

"Without  answering  her,  Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  at 
Nathalie  and  smiled. 

"  I  must  surely  be  a  domestic  tyrant,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
key,  "  else  would  my  good  aunt  recommend  you  to  my  tender 
mercies  in  this  flattering  tone?" 

"  No,  you  are  no  tyrant,"  quickly  replied  Nathalie ;  '•'  I 
shall  never  forgive  myself  that  odious  word." 

'•  Forgive  yourself,  but  do  not  mistrust  me  again." 

"  Never  !"  she  exclaimed,  placing  her  hand  in  his,  and  feel- 
ing, as  she  did  so,  that  she  had  never  loved  him  so  truly  and  so 
fervently  as  at  that  moment.  It  seemed  as  if  her  old  love  had 
all  at  once  returned  ;  not  the  troubled,  exacting  feeling  which 


116  NATHALIE. 

had  of  late  filled  licr  heart,  but  the  mingled  affection  and  rev 
erence  with  which  she  had  formerly  regarded  hira  and  which 
had  made  her  say  to  her  sister :  "  I  could  pass  thus  through 
life,  sitting  at  his  feet  and  listening  to  his  teaching." 

The  Canoness  in  her  well-meant  zeal  contributed  to  destroy 
this  good  impression. 

"  Oh,  Petite  !"  she  exclaimed,  as  soon  as  they  were  alono, 
'•  how  glad  I  am  it  is  all  over,  and  how  anxious  I  felt !  Not 
"or  years  had  I  seen  him  look  so.  I  know  his  face  better  than 
you  do.  What  can  you  have  done  to  vex  him  ?  Never  do  it 
again;  no,  for  heaven's  sake,  do  not !" 

Nathalie  smiled  without  answering. 

Aunt  Radegonde  resumed,  "  I  remember  well,  it  was  just 
so  he  looked  on  the  day  he  broke  with  Lucilc.  Oh  !  he  is  a 
harsh  man.  Do  not  provoke  him.  My  poor  child  bad  always 
more  fear  than  love  for  him  in  her  heart." 

"  But  I  have  not !"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  with  something 
like  pride,  "  I  love  and  do  not  fear." 

"  Be  not  too  confident,  you  foolish  child,"  almost  angrily 
said  the  Canoness  ;  '■  and  if,  as  I  believe,  you  do  love  him,  why 
then  do  not  provoke  and  lose  him  for  ever." 

Nathalie  smiled  without  answering.  Her  look  said :  "  You 
warn  and  threaten  me  in  vain.  Pie  loves  me,  I  know  it;  he 
shall  bear  with  me,  ay,  and  his  judgment  shall  yield  to  my  ca- 
price many  a  time." 

It  was  plain  Aunt  Badegonde  iindei-stood,  for  she  shook 
ner  head,  and  gave  the  young  girl  a  look  of  sorrowful  reproach 
as  she  merely  said:  "Petite!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Nathalie  had  discovered  that  she  possessed  the  power  of 
vexing  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  and  she  made  good  use  of  the 
discovery.  It  was  by  no  means  vanity  that  led  her  to  act  thus  ; 
but  a  sort  of  tormenting  and  experimental  curiosity  which  was, 
indeed,  her  Eve-like  and  besetting  sin.  She  felt,  moreover,  in 
indulging  her  caprices,  the  dangerous  pleasure  youth  finds  in  a 
peril  braved  and  overcome — the  pleasure  which,  when  she  wan- 
dered as   a  child  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Pvrences.  had  madg 


NATHALIE.  417 

bcr  follow  a  narrow  ledge  of  rock  by  a  precipice,  in  preference 
to  the  smooth  and  open  road,  even  though  her  heart  beat  all 
the  time  with  secret  fear.  In  the  same  spirit,  she  now  wan- 
dered amongst  the  rocky  recesses  and  dangerous  parts  of  her 
lover's  temper,  proceeding  to  the  very  verge  of  his  displeasure, 
then,  as  if  frightened  at  her  own  daring,  su.ddeDly  retreating, 
soon  to  return  again,  lured  on  by  an  irresistible  temptation. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  had  too  much  penetration  not  to  see 
through  her  design  ;  but  as  Nathalie  forbore  from  manifesting 
those  doubts  of  his  honor  which  he  resented  so  keenly,  he  was 
only  amused  by  her  hasty  and  pettish  ways  ;  he  felt  like  the 
possessor  of  a  beautiful  wild  bird,  who  philosophically  endures 
the  creature's  wilfulness  for  the  sake  of  its  bright  plumage  and 
delightful  song — nay,  who  will  even  indulge  it  in  its  farthest 
flight,  knowing  well  the  charm  to  lure  it  back  and  subdue  at 
once  all  its  wildness  and  pride. 

Indeed,  this  variable  temper,  which  would  have  alarmed 
another  man,  only  rendei-ed  Nathalie  more  seductive  to  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville.  He  had  from  the  first  been  charmed  by  the 
truth  and  vivacity  with  which  she  yielded  to  every  impulse  and 
♦impression  of  the  moment ;  and  the  charm  was  on  him  still,  for 
it  is  one  over  which  time  and  habit  have  little  power.  Once 
or  twice,  indeed,  he  asked  himself  how  this  changeful  April 
humor  of  mingled  storm  and  sunshine,  so  delightful  for  the 
pleasure  day  of  courtship,  would  answer  for  the  long  sober 
journey  of  marriage ;  but  the  doubt  never  lasted  beyond  a  mo- 
ment ;  he  knew  that  his  betrothed  loved  him  with  her  whole 
heart,  and  he  knew  also  that  his  will  was  one  not  easily  resisted. 
"  When  the  moment  comes,"  he  thought,  ''  I  can  subdue  her 
temper,  which  will  be  only  right ;  but  to  break  it,  and  with  it 
all  her  light,  innocent  vivacity,  would  be  odious."  This  com 
fortable  r-^flection  enabled  Monsieur  de  Sainville  to  bear  with 
great  equanimity  and  good  humor  the  trials  to  which  Nathalie 
put  his  patience ;  and  here,  accordingly,  is  the  place  to  men- 
tion a  contradiction  in  the  character  of  the  young  girl  which  it 
might  have  puzzled  any  metaphysician  to  account  for :  she 
would  have  been  in  despair  had  she  succeeded  in  offending 
Monsieur  de  Sainville,  but  she  felt  sadly  vexed  to  have  failed ; 
the  more  so  as  an  odd  and  significant  smile  in  which  he  in- 
dulged now  and  then,  disconcerted  her  greatly.  She  was  on 
the  verge  of  submitting  quietly  and  giving  up  the  point,  when 
the  opportunity  she  had  sought  for  in  vain  offered  itself  unex- 
pectedly. 

18* 


JIS  XATHALIB. 

The  recent  death  of  his  sister  had  prevented  Monsieur  da 
8ainville  from  pressing  Nathalie  on  the  subject  of  their  mar- 
riage, but  when  a  sufficient  time  had  elapsed  to  justify  a  quiet 
ceremony,  he  gravely  asked  her  to  fix  a  day.  She  cooly  replied 
there  was  no  hurry  ;  he  urged  the  point — she  still  said  there 
was  no  hurry  ;  he  remonstrated — she  remained  unmoved ;  he 
insisted — she  refused.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  contradiction ;  he  felt  much  surprised,  annoyed,  and 
offended  at  the  persistent  refusals  of  Nathalie.  As  she  would 
not  explain  herself,  he  attributed  her  conduct  to  coquetry  and 
caprice.  Unused  to  obstacles  he  could  not  surmount,  he  now 
felt  it  strange  and  provoking  that  the  whim  of  a  girl, — even 
though  she  was  the  being  he  most  loved — should  stand  between 
him  and  his  will.  Nay,  the  fact  of  her  being  his  future  wife, 
rather  increased  than  lessened  her  offence. 

Rose  felt  equally  annoyed  at  her  sister's  obstinacy,  and  re- 
peatedly urged  her  to  lay  by  her  objections  and  scruples. 

"  Your  present  position  is  awkward  and  unbecoming,"  she 
8aid,  very  seriously. 

"  I  do  not  care  about  that."  was  the  impatient  answer ;  "  I 
only  wish  I  could  delay  this  marriage  for  ever." 
"•Why  so?"  very  gravely  asked  her  sister. 
'•  Because,  since  it  seems  agreed  by  every  one  that  love  is 
only  a  sort  of  dream,  a  fever,  heaven  knows  what,  I  would,  if 
I  could,  prolong  its  brief  existence,  and  awaken  as  late  as  pos- 
sible, Rose." 

Rose  vainly  endeavored  to  remove  this  feeling ;  her  sister 
reminded  her  of  all  she  had  formerly  said  about  the  brevity 
and  delusions  of  passion. 

"  Well,  then,"  replied    Rose,  with    sudden    decision,   "  do 
better  still,  since  you  are  convinced  his  love  will  not  last:  that 
it  is  only  passion  and  caprice  have  drawn  him  towards  you,  give 
him  up  ;  have  the  courage  to  relinquish  him  at  once  !" 
Nathalie  turned  pale. 

"  Oh  !  Rose,"  she  said  bitterly,  "  you  are,  indeed,  pitiless ; 
do  you  not  see  I  cannot  do  that ;  that  I  love  him  ;  that  come 
what  will,  my  being  has  now  become  linked  with  his?" 

"  Then  marry  him  now  and  relieve  him — relieve  yourself 
from  a  painful  position." 

"  A  little  longer.  Rose  ;  a  little  longer.' 
"  Oh  !  child,  if  you  care  for  his  love,  be  wise,  and  seek  to 
keep  it  by  some  other  method  than  coquetry  or  caprice." 

"  Alas  !  it  is  not  coquetry  or  caprice."  sorrowfully  replied 


NATHALIE  415 

Nathalie,  "  it  is  fear,  a  fear  that  makes  me  very  unhappy. 
Oh  !  why  is  he  so  skeptical?  Why  did  he  let  me  see  it?  Why 
did  he  not  deceive  me  ?  Happy  are  the  deceived  women ; 
happy  if  they  only  knew  it !  It  is  true  I  questioned  him,  for 
there  is  a  ceaseless  tormenting  sort  of  desire  in  our  hearts  tc 
know  that  which  is  to  make  us  wretched,  and  I  dare  say  I 
questioned  him  closely.  I  wanted  to  know,  but  then  I  did  not 
imagine — how  could  I  ? — that  the  truth  was  so  very  bitter. 
There  is  a  pitiless  frankness  and  honesty -about  him;  he  will 
tell  the  truth,  however  harsh  and  cruel  it  may  be ;  if  you  do 
not  wish  to  know  it,  do  not  ask  ;  if  you  ask,  do  not  expect  he 
will  deceive  you.  I  believe  he  is  truly  attached  to  me  ;  I  can- 
not but  believe  it,  and  yet  he  will  not  take  the  engagement  of 
loving  me  for  ever  as  he  does  now.  He  will  always  have  a 
true  affection  for  me,  he  says ;  but  that  is  not  what  I  a.sk,  and 
he  declares  that  the  feeling  I  mean  is  independent  of  the  will. 
I  know  that  my  refusal  to  fix  the  time  of  our  marriage  has  of- 
fended him  deeply,  and  yet  I  can — not  help  it.  When  he  is 
cold  and  distant  now,  I  can  say  to  myself:  'it  is  anger  ;'  but 
when  he  is  cold  after  I  have  become  his  wife,  I  shall  say,  '  it  is 
indifference.'  Better,  ten  times  better,  his  anger  than  his 
indifference.  Rose." 

Thus  Nathalie  reasoned,  and  accordingly  persisted  in  her 
conduct ;  but  in  the  meanwhile  a  very  painful  feeling  of  es- 
trangement had  arisen  between  her  and  Monsieur  de  Sainville  : 
they  met  coldly  and  very  rarely  alone,  for  they  no  longer  took 
advantage  of  the  opportunities  which  the  good-natured  Canon- 
ess  had  willingly  afforded  them  ;  neither,  indeed,  felt  happy, 
yet  neither  would  take  the  first  step  that  might  lead  to  a  recon- 
ciliation, which,  from  there  being  no  open  breach,  had  become 
very  difficult.  The  arguments  of  Rose  at  length  induced  Na- 
thalie to  promise  her  sister  that  whenever  Monsieur  de  Sain- 
ville might  mention  the  subject  of  their  marriage  again,  she 
would  consent  without  objection  ;  but  he  unfortunately  could 
not  know  this,  and  as  his  pride  still  suffered  from  the  repulses 
he  had  sustained,  he  maintained  on  that  point  a  proud  and 
haughty  silence.  Nathalie  felt  deeply  offended,  she  construed 
his  reserve  into  an  open  and  direct  insult,  and  bitterly  declared 
it  was  meant  to  mortify  her  and  give  her  a  lesson.  In  order 
to  show  how  much  she  resented  this  supposed  intention,  she 
chose  for  visiting  Aunt  Radegonde  the  days  and  hours  when 
fihe  knew  Monsieur  de  Sainville  to  be  away  or  engaged  ;  left  at 
the  time  of  his  return,  and  avoided  him  so  studiously  that  they 


420  NATHALIE. 

were  once  ten  days  without  meeting.  Such  had  been  the  case, 
and  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  away  as  usual,  when  she  called 
on  Aunt  Radegonde  one  afternoon.  She  found  her  sitting 
alone  at  the  end  of  the  lime-tree  avenue,  looking  sad  and 
thoughtful. 

"I  begin  to  think,"  said  the  Canoness,  very  drearily,  "that 
this  marriage  will  never  take  place,  and  that  you  will  never 
come  back  here,  Petite  ;  matters  are  not  going  on  well  between 
you  and  Arraand  ;  ijo,  not  at  all  well.  Do  you  know  I  begin 
to  think  it  was  a  mistake  all  along,  and  that  you  now  begin  to 
find  out  you  never  liked  him  as  much  as  you  thought." 

''  Oh  !  no,"  sorrowfully  said  Nathalie  :  "  no,  Marraine,  the 
mistake  is  not  there  ;  it  is  lie  cares  less  and  less  for  me  every 
day  ;  I,  alas  !  like  hira  but  too  well,  ay,    and  more  than  ever.' 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  wept  bitterly. 

"  My  child,  my  poor  child  !"  exclaimed  the  Canoness,  much 
distressed,  "  do  not  cry  so,  I  am  sure  it  is  only  a  mistake." 

"  And  why  should  there  be  a  mistake  at  all  V  said  tht 
voice  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 

Nathalie  looked  up  with  sudden  terror,  and  turned  very 
pale,  as  she  beheld  him  standing  before  her.  He  looked  grave, 
and  had  evidently  overheard  her.     She  did  not  reply. 

"  Why  should  there  be  a  mistake  at  all?  "  he  repeated,  jit- 
ting  down  by  her  side. 

She  did  not  answer  or  look  towards  him  ;  a  burning  bmsh 
was  gradually  settling  over  her  features.  She  felt  mortified, 
vexed,  and  yet  happy,  for  she  knew  that  the  cloud  was  at  length 
broken. 

'•  Yes,"  eagerly  said  the  Canoness,  "  why  should  there  be  a 
mistake  at  all  ?  Why  not  have  that  which  would  remove  all 
such  mistakes — a  wedding,  for  instance,"  she  shrewdly  added, 
after  a  pause  ;  "  it  would  be  a  good  remedy,  Petite." 

Nathalie  did  not  reply. 

"  Petite  rejects  the  remedy,"  quietly  observed  Monsieur  de 
Sainville. 

"  Indeed  she  does  not,"  quickly  rejoined  his  aunt.  "  It  is 
very  strange  in  you  Armand,  to  say,  that.  I  am  sure  Petite 
is  too  sensible  not  to  feel,  not  to  know — in  short,  Petite  will 
leave  the  matter  for  me  as  the  head  of  the  family  to  settle,  will 
she  not  ?"  she  added  in  her  most  coaxing  tones. 

Nathalie  remained  silent ;  her  pride  was  undergoing  a  se> 
rere  trial.  If  "Monsieur  de  Sainville  had  not  overheard  her. 
she  would  not  have  felt  it,  but  she  had  said  she  liked  him  better 


NATHALIE.  42 1 

than  ever,  and  now,  whiclicver  way  slie  acted,  slie  felt  con- 
demned to  appear  weak  or  capricious.  He  was  looking  at  he? 
calmly  and  attentively.  His  aunt  was  going  to  repeat  her 
question  :  he  prevented  her. 

"  No,  aunt,  this  privilege  belong,s  to  rac." 

'•  But,  Armand,"  she  said,  a  little  stiffly,  "  I  think  that  aa 
head  of  the  house " 

"  Be  kind  enough  to  wave  3-our  right  for  once,"  he  replied, 
very  seriously. 

"  Well,  for  once  I  do  not  mind  ;  but  you  understand,  Ar- 
mand, that  when  the  head  of  the  house  happens  to  be  a  woman, 
those  matters  are  generally  left  to  her." 

"  Yes,  aunt,  I  understand,"  he  answered,  a  little  impatient- 
ly.    He  addressed  the  Canoness,  but  kept  looking  at  Nathalie, 

The  young  girl  understood  this  look,  and  she  resolved  to 
efface  by  the  gravity  of  her  consent,  whatever  sense  of  triumph 
in  him,  or  mortification  in  her,  it  might  create. 

"  It  shall  now  be  as  you  like,"  she  said,  very  seriously,  and 
meeting  his  look  as  she  spoke. 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Aunt  Radegonde  vainly  com- 
pressed her  lips- to  conceal  her  smile  of  triumph  ;  for  it  was  one 
of  her  weaknesses  to  imagine  every  favorable  event  in  which 
she  was  even  slightly  concerned  as  the  result  of  the  most  deep- 
ly-laid schemes  and  diplomacy  on  her  part. 

"  It  would  have  been  a  broken  match  without  rne  and  my 
managing,"  she  shrewdly  thought ;  and  again  looking  at  them 
both,  she  smiled  openly ;  but  a  cloud  soon  came  over  her 
cheerful  face.  They  sat  side  by  side  indeed,  but  with  glance.'? 
which  if  not  averted  from  one  another,  were  certainly  not  likely 
to  meet ;  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  looking  at  the  sky  before 
him  ;  Nathalie's  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  ground  at  her  feet  ; 
neither  spoke,  and  yet,  though  the  Canone,ss  knew  it  not,  they 
might  then  be  as  near  and  understand  one  another  as  well  aa 
in  utter  solitude.  "  It  is  an  explanation  they  want,"  thought  she. 

"  Mo7i  Dieu .'"  she  suddenly  exclaimed  aloud,  "  I  have 
forgotten  my  knitting ;  only  think  of  that,  Armand  ;  only 
think  of  that,  Petite  !" 

She  rose  as  she  spoke  thus,  and  alas  !  left  them  alone. 

It  was  evening :  the  sun  was  setting  fast ;  the  blue  of 
heaven  was  deepening  at  the  zenith  ;  but  from  the  western 
horizon  a  flood  of  golden  light  poured  over  the  garden  and  the 
surrounding  grounds.  The  first  days  of  summer  had  come, 
and  the  trees  were  all  in  their  verdure  and  beauty ;  but  in  tie 


122  NATHALIE. 

warm  light  wliicli  now  fell  upon  tliem.  they  seemed  to  have 
borrowed  some  of  the  rich  hues  of  autumn  ;  even  the  dark 
masses  of  evergreens  in  the  background  had  caught  a  rosy 
flush  from  the  setting  sun,  and  the  stately  cedar  rose  against 
the  blue  sky,  unstirred  by  a  breath  from  heaven.  Every 
thing  spoke  harmony,  loveliness,  and  peace. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  thoughtful. 

"  What  is  he  going  to  say  ?•'  thought  Nathalie,  who  felt  her 
heart  beating  fast.  It  was  now  a  long  time  since  they  had  met 
thus  alone.  Nathalie  was  in  a  mood  when  the  affections,  and 
the  affections  alone,  are  easily  swayed.  With  a  few  kind  words 
her  lover  might  have  obtained  any  concession  from  her ;  she 
felt  tired  of  rebellion  ;  it  would  have  gladdened  her  to  submit, 
but  to  submit  because  her  heart  longed  for  it,  certainly  not 
because  it  was  expedient,  or  even  just.  Unfortunately 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  neither  saw  nor  suspected  this  He 
concluded,  as  most  men  would  have  concluded  in  his  place, 
that  his  coldness  had  given  the  young  girl  a  somewhat  severe 
but  upon  the  whole  a  salutary  lesson,  and  that  for  their  mutual 
happiness  it  would  be  proper  to  keep  this  up  a  little  longer. 
The  temper  of  his  future  bride  had  of  late  given  him  some 
uneasiness.  He  began  to  think  that  he  had  been  too  indulgent ; 
that  he  had  mistaken  her  ;  that  she  was  not  so  easily  swayed 
as  he  had  first  imagined  ;  above  all,  that  their  married  life 
would  require  a  greater  display  of  will  on  his  part  than  he  had 
anticipated.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  liked  to  rule,  but  not  to 
command.  He  wished  his  authority  to  be  so  well  established, 
that  whilst  rebellion  remained  out  of  the  question  every 
appearance  of  subjection  should  be  carefully  avoided.  He 
would  by  no  means  deprive  Nathalie  of  the  wild  grace  which 
freedom  gives — a  grace  which  became  her  so  well  that  it 
-seemei  her  own  peculiarity.  Nay;  he  even  liked  her  to  resist 
his  will,  provided  she  ended  by  yielding.  He  wished  his  yoke 
to  seem  as  light  as  it  was  firm  in  reality.  But  for  this,  it  was 
necessary  Natiialie  should  understand  him  plainly ;  at  the 
same  time  this  was  not  a  thing  easily  put  in  words  ;  therefore 
he  hesitated.  He  spoke  at  length.  The  young  girl  had  been 
abandoning  herself  to  the  soothing  charm  of  the  hour  then 

"  Quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  admiration." 

The  divine  peace  of  earth  and  sky  seemed  to  have  entered 
her   heart.     She   felt   as   if  this   were  the  time  for  a  happy 


NATIIALtE.  423 

fcconeiliation,  and  -wondered  how  he  would  address  her  after  a 
tacit  quarrel  of  three  "weeks ;  and  how  he  would  excuse  his 
coldness,  and  seek  to  soothe  her  wounded  pride.  He  did 
neither ;  in  gentle,  though  firm  language,  he  proved  to  her 
that  she  had  been  nmch  in  the  wrong ;  that  they  had  both 
been  unhappy  ;  that  such  misunderstandings  would  render  any 
married  life  miserable  ;  that  there  was  only  one  safe  cure  for 
such  cases — authority  on  the  side  of  the  husband,  and  submis- 
sion on  that  of  the  wife.  Nathalie  looked  up  incredulously 
into  his  face. 

"  Surely  I  have  misunderstood  you,"  she  said ;  "  you  do 
not  mean  to  say  a  woman  must  obey  her  husband  !'" 

"  I  assure  you  such  is  my  opinion,"  he  seriously  replied. 

"  Would  you  expect  your  wife  to  obey  you?"'  she  promptly 
asked. 

"  Under  certain  restrictions,  I  should." 

He  spoke  without  the  least  hesitation.  Yet  Nathalie 
looked  up  into  his  face  with  lingering  doubt.  '•  This  is  only  a 
trial,"  she  thought.     He  resumed  : 

"  I  do  not  understand  by  obedience  a  servile  submission 
which  it  would  be  as  degrading  to  exact  as  to  yield ;  but  that 
trust  and  confidence  which  induces  a  woman  to"  submit,  not 
blindly,  but  willingly,  to  the  guidance  of  him  to  whom  she  has 
confided  her  destiny." 

"  I  might  agree  with  you  if  he  were  her  father,"  coldlv  said 
Nathalie, 

"  A  woman's  husband  ought  to  have  all  the  authority  of  a 
father,"  gravely  replied  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 

'•  And  of  a  master,  it  would  seem,"  bitterly  exclaimed 
Nathalie,  who  on  this  subject  had  all  the  rebellious  feelings 
of  her  sex. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  take  this  view  of  the  subject,"  he  calmly 
resumed.  "  I  had  hoped  to  convince  you  of  the  soundness 
of  my  views.  You  cannot  but  acknowledge  that  we  have  not 
of  late  been  quite  happy.  No  married  life  carried  on  in  this 
spirit  would  be  endurable.  And  why  ?  Because  you  have 
refused  to  yield,  when  it  would  have  been  right  to  do  so.  Was 
I  not  justified  in  dismissing  Jean,  without  forgiving  him  at 
your  request,  or  entering  into  a  painful  explanation  ?  Was  I 
not  equally  justified  in  urging  an  immediate  union,  when  delay 
led  to  such  unpleasant  consequences  ?  You,  unfortunately, 
had  not  confidence  enough  in  me  to  recognize  or  admit  this  ; 
there  is  but  one  possible  remedy — your  promise  to  yield  to  mo 
for  the  future." 


424  rfATHALIE. 

"  And  why  should  I  yield?"  impetuously  asked  Nathalie 
who  felt  much  irritated  at  his  coldness. 

'•  Remember,"  he  continued  without  answering,  "  that  I 
ppeak  not  of  servile  submission,  but  of  a  noble  feeling  of 
confidence.  It  is  impossible  you  .should  think  I  wish  to  play 
the  tyrant  with  you.  But  remember  the  difference  of  our 
dispositions  and  our  years.  I  love  you  with  the  authority  and 
tenderness  of  a  father.  You  are  very  young,  and  very  heedless  ; 
you  must  be  both  my  wife  and  my  child." 

"  I  will  not,"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  stung  by  this  promise  of 
paternal  affection.  "  I  will  not  be  your  daughter,  or  yield  you 
the  obedience  of  one.  I  feel  myself  your  equal ;  as  such  I  will 
be  treated." 

He  waited  until  she  was  less  excited,  then  said,  with  a 
coolness  that  only  seemed  to  increase  as  she  lost  her  compo- 
sure : 

"  I  do  not  question  our  equality,  I  merely  say  that  our  po- 
sitions will  be  different.  What  is  the  feeling  that  constitutes 
a  happy  marriage?  Faith  on  either  side :  in  man,  as  an  entire 
faith  in  the  love  and  truth  of  her  he  has  chosen  ;  in  woman,  as 
a  boundless  trust  in  the  honor  of  her  husband.  I  ask  you  to 
have  that  trust  in  me.  You  cannot  imagine  that  under  the 
pretence  of  authority  I  shall  seek  to  interfere  with  every  detail 
of  your  existence.  If  you  do,  indeed,  you  think  me  a  tyrant  in 
your  heart,  however  much  you  may  deny  it  with  your  lips.  All 
I  want  is  to  be  your  guide  and  friend.  Domestic  strife  is  the 
bane  of  marriage  ;  let  us  avoid  it.  Promise  when  our  wills  are 
at  variance,  that  yours  will  yield  to  mine,  not  because  I  am 
your  superior,  but  because  my  years  and  experience  enable  mc 
to  judge  and  decide  better  than  you  can." 

All  this  might  be  very  reasonable,  but  logic  always  chilled 
Nathalie.  Unfortunately,  those  who  loved  her  best  never 
seemed  aware  that  she  thought  with  her  heart.  Monsieur  de 
Sainville's  cold  language  fell  on  her  warm  southern  feelings 
,ike  the  icy  breeze  of  some  northern  shore.  "  Oh,  no,"  she 
thought,  with  a  swelling  heart,  as  her  hopes  of  a  happy  recon- 
ciliation were  thus  dispelled.  '•  No,  he  never  has  loved  me,  or 
he  would  not  now  speak  so  coldly !"  and  tears  which  she  could 
not  repress  dimmed  her  eyes. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  completely  misunderstood  her  emo 
tion.  He  thought  she  was  yielding,  but  deploring  at  the  same 
time  the  necessity  of  being  obliged  to  yield. 

'•  Is  it  possible,"  he  asked,  a  little  impatiently,  '"  that  the 


J7/1THALIB.  425 

prospect  of  yielding  up  your  will  to  mine  now  and  tben— -foril 
would  be  no  more — can  ghock  yoi\  so  much  ?" 

Nathalie  gave  him  a  look  of  sorrowful  reproach. 

"I  am  not  thinking  of  that,"  she  sadly  said,  "bat  1  am 
thinking  that  after  being  to  me  more  distant  than  the  merest 
stranger  for  three  weeks,  this  cold  wisdom  is  all  you  find  to 
say  now.  Oh  !"  added  she,  in  a  low  and  beseeching  tone,  "  ii 
you  do  indeed  wish  me  to  obey  you,  ask  me  in  some  other  way 
to  do  so,  and  I  may  perhaps  subdue  my  pride  so  far  ;  but  do  not 
try  to  prove  to  me  that  I  must, — that  it  is  a  duty ;  that  if  I 
refuse,  all  happiness  is  gone.  Oh !  the  heart  has  arguments 
worth  all  your  logic.  Say  it  is  something  you  desire,  and  I 
will  grant  it  without  caring  what  or  why." 

Her  voice  trembled  slightly  as  she  spoke. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  neither  replied  nor  turned  towards 
her,  and  yet  he  was  not  unmoved.  Had  he  at  that  moment  fol- 
lowed the  impulse  of  his  heart,  he  would  have  spoken  very 
tenderly,  nor  uttered  another  word  about  that  promise  of  obe- 
dience which  it  had  cost  him  more  to  mention  than  Nathalie, 
from  his  calm  manner,  imagined.  But  he  knew  that  if  he  now 
yielded  to  this  impulse,  it  would  be  to  repent  it  for  ever,  and 
he  therefore  firmly  resisted  it.  Besides,  in  his  cold  and  rigid 
honesty  he  would  have  scrupled  to  avail  himself  of  a  moment's 
yielding  tenderness.  "  Poor  child  !"  he  thought,  "  she  has  a 
kind  and  affectionate  heart ;  and  yet  I  must  wait  until  by-and- 
bye  to  tell  her  how  dearly  I  prize  it.  For  her  own  good,  I 
must  first  convince  her  that  it  is  right  and  necessary  I  should 
have  a  proper  control  over  that  stubborn  little  will  and  that 
flighty  temper  of  hers. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  he,  aloud,  a  little  more  kindly,  but 
quite  as  coldly  as  before,  "  you  mistake  me  ;  this  is  no  matter 
of  feeling;  I  do  not  appeal  to  your  heart,  but  to  your  judg- 
ment ;  I  do  not  wish  to  influence, — I  wish  to  convince  you." 

Nathalie  smiled  bitterly.  He  spoke  kindly,  but  she  felt 
chilled  and  repelled  ;  all  her  best  feelings  seemed  thrown  back 
upon  her  as  weak  and  worthless  things. 

"  Of  what  do  you  wish  to  convince  me  V^  she  asked,  iii  a 
low  tone. 

"  That  for  the  sake  of  our  mutual  happiness  it  will  be  jus! 
that  you  should  sometimes — I  shall  rarely  claim  the  right — ■ 
obey  me." 

Much  in  life  depends  upon  a  word.  In  spite  of  his  unal* 
lered  coldness  and  inflexible  tone,  Nathalie  might  have  yielded, 


fe25  NATHALIE. 

but  the  word  "  obey  "  revolted  her  as  a  gratuitous  insult,  llei 
color  rose,  her  look  lost  all  at  once  its  usual  softness,  and  her 
very  lips  trembled  with  indignation  as  she  cried  vehemently, 

'•  I  will  not  obey  you." 

"  Then  you  mistrust  me,"  said  he,  with  a  frown.  "  You 
have  no  confidence  in  my  justice  ;  none  in  my  honor.  You 
think  I  would  make  an  unworthy  use  of  my  power." 

'•  I  neither  know  nor  care,"  disdainfully  replied  Nathalie, 
who  now  felt  perfectly  reckless  ;  "  but  I  declare  to  you  that  I 
will  not  obey  you,  or  promise  to  do  so." 

She  rose  as  she  epoke  thus  with  equal  decision  and  energy. 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  saw  at  once  that  his  advantage  was 
gone,  but  he  would  not  stoop  to  compromise  or  utter  a  word  to 
win  back  what  he  had  lost.  Theoretically,  love  may  be  all  the 
pure  gold  of  devotion  ;  practically,  it  is  alloyed  with  the  meaner 
metal  of  other  passions.  In  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  case,  it 
blended  with  pride  and  inflexible  will.     Pie  rose  also. 

'•  Nathalie,"  said  he,  with  a  sort  of  angry  calmness,  which 
she  knew  well,  "  the  happiness  of  our  whole  existence  is  at 
stake.  I  ask  you  once  more,  will  you  become  my  wife,  and 
promise  to  obey  me?" 

Nathalie  loved  him,  but  she  too  was  passionate  and  proud, 
Her  color  deepened  as  she  replied,  in  broken  tones : 

'•  I  understand  you.  and  I  reject  3'our  conditions.  I  will 
not  become  your  wife  if  I  may  not  be  such  without  obeying 
you  I  release  you  from  a  tie  which  has  of  late  become  a  bur- 
den to  you  ;  which  perhaps  was  always  so.  Let  us  part ;  we 
^re  not  fit  for  one  another.  You  do  not  love  me.  You  never 
loved  me  truly ;  and  I  feel  I  could  not  long  love  one  who 
seeks  not  a  wife  but  a  slave." 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  became  extremely  pale  ;  of  that 
livid  pallor  which  indicates  repressed  anger ;  but  he  said,  in 
his  coldest  tones : 

"  Be  it  so." 

He  turned  away  as  he  spoke,  without  giving  her  time  to 
recover,  answer,  or  retract.  She  stood  in  the  same  spot,  mo- 
tionless as  a  statue,  and  well  nigh  as  pale,  listening  to  the 
sound  of  his  receding  steps  on  the  gravel  of  the  lime-tree  ave- 
nue. At  length  the  sound  ceased ;  the  library  door  had  closed 
upon  him. 

Until  then  Nathalie  did  not  seem  to  have  the  full  con- 
sciousness of  what  had  really  happened ;  but  that  sound  sent 
a,  strange  pang  through  her  heart ;  and  all  at  once  the  thought 


NATHALIE.  427 

that  every  thing  was  over,  broke  on  her  with  a  force  so  terrible 
and  so  awful,  that  it  seemed  to  crush  her.  She  sank  down  on 
the  bench — the  same  on  which  they  had  both  sat  a  few  minutes 
back — conscious  of  nothing  save  his  last  words  :  "  Be  it  so." 

She  bowed  her  head  in  her  hands,  and  felt  like  those  on 
whom  the  irrevocable  sentence  has  been  passed. 

How  long  or  how  short  a  time  she  remained  thus,  Nathalie 
did  not  know.  She  was  roused  by  a  voice  observing,  close 
to  her : 

"  Petite,  why  on  earth  do  you  stay  here  ?  The  dew  is 
falling." 

The  words  reached  her  ear,  but  their  meaning  seemed 
vague  and  indistinct,  like  something  heard  in  a  dream.  Yet 
she  looked  up.  Evening  was  closing  in;  the  lime-trees  cast 
their  deep  shadow  around  her;  the  air  was  gray  a.nd  chill; 
Aunt  Eadegonde  stood  before  her.  Even  in  this  indistinct 
light,  the  Cauoness  was  struck  with  the  young  girl's  pallor  and 
altered  features. 

•'  0/i,  onon  Dieu !"  she  agitatedly  exclaimed ;  "  what  has 
happened  ?     Why  are  you  here  alone  ?  Where  is  Armand  ?" 

Nathalie  looked  at  her  drearily.  "  Where  is  Armand  ?" 
Oh,  who  would  ever  ask  that  question  of  her  again,  and  when 
would  she  reply,  "  He  is  here,"  or  "  He  is  coming  !" 

"  Petite  !"  beseechingly  exclaimed  the  Canoness,  "  Oh  !  tell 
me  what  it  is  that  has  happened  ?" 

Nathalie  did  not  reply  ;  she  rose  with  an  eifort,  put  on  her 
bonnet  and  scarf,  which  lay  on  the  bench,  then  bent  down,  ki/-.s- 
sd  the  Canoness,  and,  in  a  low  tone,  dropped  the  woras, 
■•'  Good  bye." 

"  No,  not  good  bye  ;  not  good  byQ,"  cried  Aunt  Kadegonde, 
very  much  agitated  ;  '■'  it  is  only  good  night ;  you  go  early,  be- 
cause your  sister  wants  you  ;  you  will  come  back  to-morrow ; 
the  day  is  fixed,  I  know.  Come,  Petite,  do  not  be  foolish  ;  do 
not  talk  so  " 

"  Good  bye,"  again  said  Nathalie,  in  a  low  tone. 

The  poor  Canoness  sank  down  on  the  seat  lately  occupied 
by  the  young  girl. 

"  I  knew  it,"  she  cried ;  "  yes,  I  knew  it  from  the  first. 
What  has  his  love  ever  brought,  save  misery?  Oh  !  he  is  a 
hard-hearted  tyrant.  God  forgive  him  ;  God  forgive  him  ;  1 
cannot."  _     ^ 

She  said  no  more,  but  burst  into  tears.  Nathalie  kissed 
her  once  more,  and  wished  to  turn  away,  but  the  Canonesa 
pressed  her  to  her  besom,  and  wept  again. 


428  NATHALIE. 

'•  You  will  come  and  see  me,"  she  said. 

Natiialie  shook  her  head,  and  disengaged  herself  from  her 
embrace  without  answering.  Yet,  before  going,  she  gave  one 
look  to  the  scenes  of  so  many  joys  and  such  bitter  grief.  Every 
thing  looked  vague  and  indistinct  in  the  twilight,  and  the  low 
sound  of  the  little  fountain  alone  disturbed  the  deep  silence. 
Aunt  Radegonde  was  sitting  on  the  bench  in  a  sorrowful  and 
desolate  attitude ;  her  pale  figure  and  wistful  look  ever  came 
back  to  Nathalie,  with  the  memory  of  that  hour  of  sorrow. 

She  had  passed  through  the  garden,  crossed  the  court,  and 
entered  the  house.  As  she  reached  the  passage  leading  to  the 
hall,  the  library  door  opened,  and  Monsieur  de  Sainville  camo 
out.  Nathalie  recognized  him  by  the  light  of  the  lamp,  which 
fell  full  on  his  features.  She  could  not  retrace  her  steps  with- 
out being  heard,  and  therefore  remained  standing  where  she 
was,  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  staircase  ;  but  instead  of  going 
up  to  the  drawing-room,  as  she  thought  he  would,  Monsieur  de 
Sainville  came  pi'ccisely  to  the  spot  where  she  stood.  He  did 
not  see  her  until  they  stood  face  to  face.  All  the  blood  in 
Nathalie's  frame  rushed  tumultuously  to  her  heart ;  but  she 
neither  moved  nor  spoke.  He,  as  pale,  silent,  and  yet  as  agi- 
tated as  the  young  girl,  stood  equally  irresolute.  At  first,  he 
seemed  inclined  to  move  on,  but  he  suddenly  changed  his  re- 
solve ;  and,  taking  both  her  hands  in  his,  drew  her  forward  to 
the  light,  and  looked  at  her  fixedly.  Before  she  could  recover 
from  the  surprise  into  which  this  sudden  act  had  thrown  her, 
he  had  dropped  her  hands,  opened  the  door  leading  to  iht 
court,  and  was  gone. 

For  a  few  minutes,  Nathalie  remained  motionless  on  the 
spot  where  he  had  left  her.  She  remembered  the  evening 
when  he  had  told  her  that  he  wanted  to  look  at  her,  because 
he  was  going  away  for  a  fortnight ;  but  then  his  look  was  not 
so  sad,  so  grave,  nor,  alas  !  so  brief, 

Rose  was  in  her  room  undressing  when  her  sister  entered 
It.  One  look  at  Nathalie's  pale  face  told  her  all  that  had  hap- 
pened. She  had  long  foreseen  this,  yet  the  shock  made  her 
turn  pale,  and  drew  from  her  an  exclamation  of  sorrow  ;  but 
she  asked  no  explanation. 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  some  day,"  said  Nathalie,  in  a  low  tone. 
"  Be  merciful,  and  do  not  question  me  now." 

She  sat  down  on  a  chair,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 
She  remained  there  for  several  hours,  and  would  not  go  to  bed 
until  near  daylight.     When  she  at  length  laid   down   by  the 


NATHALin.  429 

side  of  her  sister,  Rose  half-raised  herself  on  one  elbow,  and 
watched  her  anxiously.  She  was  motionless,  but  evidently  not 
asleep  ;  the  dull  morning  light  added  to  the  waxen  pallor  of 
her  features  ;  her  hands  lay  folded  on  her  bosom  ;  her  eyes 
were  closed,  but  no  tears  stole  from  beneath  the  sealed  eye- 
lids. She  never  spoke  once,  nor  did  Rose  address  her:  for 
the  sorrow  that  will  not  reveal  itself  in  words,  language  has 
no  consolation. 

Nathalie  rose  with  her  sister.  It  was  early  still,  as  the 
deep  quietness  of  heaven  and  earth  revealed.  She  opened  the 
window,  and  unclosed  the  shutters,  and  sat  down,  leaning  her 
brow  against  the  iron  bar  of  the  little  balcony.  The  rosy 
light  of  the  rising  sun  fell  on  the  old  abbey  and  on  the  little 
churchyard  beyond  ;  the  breeze  was  cool  and  pure  ;  there  was 
something  holy  in  this  quiet  time.  But  its  repose  was  lost  osi 
the  young  girl.  Oh  !  how  often  will  troubled  human  hearts 
quarrel  witla  the  eternal  peace  and  loveliness  of  nature. 

"  You  will  get  cold,  if  you  sit  thus  in  your  nightdress," 
said  Rose,  closing  the  window  as  she  spoke  thus,  chiefly  for 
the  purpose  of  extracting  some  reply ;  but  Nathalie  gave  her 
none.  She  merely  drew  her  chair  near  the  table,  and.  with  a 
pencil,  began  writing  a  few  hurried  lines  on  a  slip  of  paper. 
Scarcely,  however,  was  this  done,  when  she  tore  what  she  had 
written,  almost  angrily  ;  rose,  walked  up  and  down  the  room, 
and  slowly  returned  to  her  seat  to  write  once  more.  She  fold- 
ed up  the  slip  of  paper  in  the  shape  of  a  note,  held  it  for  i 
few  minutes  between  her  fingers,  and  at  length,  with  evident 
effort,  handed  it  to  her  sister,  who  now  stood  dressed  before 
her. 

"  Rose,"  said  she,  in  a  low,  steady  voice,  but  without  look- 
ing at  her,  "  you  will  take  this  immediately,  you  know  where 
and  to  whom.  See  no  one  save  the  person  for  whom  this 
is  destined." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Rose,  "  I  shall  do  so." 

She  looked  compassionately  at  her  sister,  but  Nathalie 
avoided  the  glance  with  evident  pain. 

An  hour  elapsed  before  Rose  entered  once  more  the  house 
of  Madame  Lavigne  But  that  she  always  looked  thus,  one 
would  have  said  that  Rose  now  looked  very  grave  and  sad. 
She  slowly  ascended  the  staircase  leading  to  her  room.  She 
seemed  to  know  without  inquiry  that  there,  and  there  only,  she 
would  find  her  sister.  She  was  there,  indeed,  dressed  now,  but 
sitting  in  llie   same  place  and  almost  in   the  same  attituda 


430  NATHALIE. 

She  looked  up  as  Rose  entered  ;  their  eyes  met,  but  neither 
tspoke. 

"  Well,"  at  length  said  Nathalie,  speaking  with  evident 
effort ;  "you  have  been  there,  Rose,  have  you  not?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  there." 

"  And  you — you — I  mean  you  gave  the  letter.  What  ! 
did  you  leave  it?"  she  added,  with  sudden  terror  as  Rose  did 
not  reply.     "  Rose,  you  cannot  have  left  it ;  it  was  not  sealed." 

Rose  did  not  answer ;  but  with  averted  look,  silently 
handed  a  slip  of  paper  to  her  sister  ;  it  fell  from  Nathalie's 
hand  ;  for  on  opening  it,  she  recognized  what  she  herself  had 
written.  Her  head  drooped  on  her  bosom,  and  she  clasped 
her  hands,  as  she  exclaimed  in  a  low  tone  : 

"Returned!  To  what  other  humiliation  am  I  reserved? 
And  returned  unread,  no  doubt  ?"  she  added,  with  an  inquir- 
ing and  wistful  glance  at  her  sister.  "  Well,  no  matter,  do  not 
turn  away  your  head  or  look  so  sad,  my  poor  Rose.  I  have 
often  heard  him  say  the  time  has  long  gone  by  when  women 
died  of  grief" 

Rose  seemed  strangely  moved,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  But  he  shall,  but  he  must  hear  me,"  exclaimed  Nathalie, 
with  a  burst  of  sudden  and  despairing  grief.  "  I  am  not  proud, 
I  care  nothing  about  pride ;  where  there  is  love,  there  is  no 
pride.  I  have  a  right  to  be  heard ;  yesterday  I  was  his 
affianced  wife,  it  cannot  be  that  I  am  nothing  to  him  to-day. 
Let  him,  lei  the  world  say  what  they  like — I  say  it  is  love  and 
not  the  word  of  mayor  or  blessing  of  priest  that  makes  mar- 
riage. He  will  not  read  my  letter — he  shall  hear  me.  If  he 
will  not  see  me,  I  will  wait  for  him  by  the  road-side  ;  I  know 
well  the  road  he  takes,  and  I  care  not  how  long  I  wait,  no\ 
who  sees  me,  but  come  what  will,  I  say  he  shall  hear  me." 

"  Hush  !  do  not  talk  so,"  said  Rose  ;  "  your  letter  was  not 
returned." 

'•  Not  returned  !  Why  then  did  you  bring  it  back  ?  Ah  ! 
I  understand,"  she  agitatedly  added,  "  you  came  from  me  and 
were  therefore  refused  admittance.  Well,  you  are  right.  Rose, 
it  was  foolish  in  me  to  talk  so.  No,  I  shall  not  trouble  him 
with  my  presence  or  with  my  words." 

Rose  turned  towards  her  with  an  expression  of  deep  sad- 
ness ;  their  looks  met  once  more.  A  sudden  terror  seemed  to 
S3ize  on  Nathalie,  for  she  rose  and  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Rose,"  she  cried,  "  do  not  look  thus  and  be  so  silent.  No. 
it  is  not  true ;  I  am  sure  he   is  not  gone.     I  am  sure  he  is 


NATHALIE.  43] 

not,  Oh  !  tell  me  thai  he  will  come  back,  sister  ;  be  merciful, 
tell  nte  something." 

Her  voice  saak  down  to  a  low  and  despairing  tone,  soon 
broken  by  convulsive  sobs. 

'•  Alas  !  my  poor  child,"  sadly  replied  Rose,  "  would  I 
might  have  spared  you  this  bitter  trial ;  but  it  is  the  will  of 
God." 

She  handed  her  another  letter  as  she  spoke. 

Nathalie  took  it ;  she  was  very  pale,  and  as  she  held  it 
unopened  for  a  while,  her  hand  shook  visibly.  With  an  ef- 
fort, she  broke  the  seal,  but  a  mist  was  on  her  eyes  ;  the 
characters  looked  illegible  and  dim.  She  handed  the  letter 
to  her  sister,  and  said,  in  a  low  tone  : — 

"  Read  it  to  me,  Rose ;  you  read  another  letter  once,  not 
so  very  long  ago.  but  rather  different  fi'om  this,  I  dare  say." 

Rose  read.  The  letter  was  from  Monsieur  de  Sainville — ;i 
last  farewell  letter — calm,  indulgent,  and  very  kind.  He  laid 
no  blame  to  Nathalie,  and  took  some  to  himself  '•  It  was  not. ' 
he  wrote,  "  merely  on  account  of  what  had  passed  between 
them  on  a  previous  day  that  they  parted,  but  because  they  had 
loved  most  unwisely.  Our  natures,"  he  pursued,  '-could 
never  have  harmonized.  You  would  have  thought  me  cold 
and  indifferent,  and  I  should  have  wearied  of  those  doubts 
and  unexpressed  reproaches.  I  once  thought  the  great 
difference  between  us  favorable  to  our  mutual  affection  ;  1 
have  lived  to  expiate  this  bitter  mistake.  Believe  me,  my 
dear  ^hild,  it  is  far  better  to  part  now  than  to  discover  our 
error  later.  Harsh,  yet  true  philosophy !  To  say  we  shall 
not  both  suffer  would  be  folly.  Suffer  we  must,  for  we  both 
love,  and  must  for  a  long  time  love  still.  But  time,  as  you 
too  will  live  to  know,  cures  many  wounds.  I  leave  to-morrow 
early  ;  we  shall  not  meet  again,  for  a  long  time,  at  least. 
Perhaps  your  feelings  are  very  bitter  against  me  ;  yet  I  have 
a  favor  to  ask,  and  by  the  memory  of  a  happier  time,  I  con- 
jure you  to  grant  it :  do  not  foi'sake  my  poor  aunt.  Twice 
have  I  involuntarily  been  to  her  the  cause  of  the  same  bitter 
sorrow  ;  do  not,  I  beseech  you,  abandon  her.  It  will  be  long, 
very  long,  years  perhaps,  before  my  presence  need  disturb  you 
in  that  house  which  I  had  once  thought  would  be  your  own 
home. 

"  I  know  not  how  you  will  receive  this  request,  for  I  know 

not  how  you  think  of  me, — resentfully,  I   dare   say.     Do  you 

magine,  then,  that  this  separation  is  not  to  me  also  the  source 


132  NATHALIE. 

of  bitter  paui  1  And  yet  I  have  a  consolation  whicli,  if  1  un- 
derstand your  character  rightly,  will  be  denied  you.  For, 
whereas  you  will  do  all  you  can  to  cast  me  from  your  heart,  I 
shall  still  cherish  the  memory  of  the  past,  and  of  every  thing 
which,  from  the  first,  made  you  dear.  I  have  always  loved 
you  with  a  truer  affection  than  you  imagined ;  I  call  it  truer, 
because  I  feel  even  now,  that  though  it  may  change  in  nature, 
it  cannot  change  in  sincerity." 

Rose  ceased.     Her  sister  looked  up. 

'•  Rose,"  she  said,  "  there  is  more,  I  am  sure,  turn  over  the 
page  ;  there  must  be  something  else — a  postscript :  look." 

Rose  silently  handed  her  the  letter.  There  was  nothing- 
else,  save  the  word  "  farewell,"  which,  in  pity  to  her  feelings. 
Rose  had  not  read  aloud.  Nathalie  glanced  over  the  paper, 
put  it  by,  and  sat  down  near  the  table,  in  a  listless  and  dreary 
attitude.  Her  sister  stood  before  her,  eyeing  her  with  the  sad- 
ness always  inspired  by  the  con.sciousness  of  unavailing  sym 
pathy. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  poor  child  ?"  she  gently 
asked. 

'•  Nothinc:,  Rose,  save  to  leave  me  alone  for  a  while  ;  I  will 
soon  go  down." 

Rose  silently  complied.  After  a  while  Nathalie  took  up 
the  letter  again,  read  it,  and  remained  tearless.  This  was  no 
time  for  the  luxury  of  weeping  ;  she  had  wept  before,  happy 
tears,  in  which  hope  and  gleams  of  joy  blended  with  sadness  ; 
but  this  foolish  time  was  over  now ;  the  hour  for  real  sorrow 
Lad  come  at  last. 

It  was  a  genial  morning,  of  summer's  earliest  and  most 
lovely  days.  The  sun  shone  brightly;  its  warmth  was  tem- 
pered by  the  fresh  and  pleasant  breeze  which  came  in  to  her, 
through  the  open  window.  A  few  children  played  in  the 
churchyard  beyond,  the  sound  of  their  laughter  rose  pleasantly 
on  the  ear  ;  the  rooks  cawed  and  wheeled  around  the  old  tower 
opposite ;  a  servant  maid  in  her  high  Norman  cap  and  clatter- 
ing sabots,  sang  in  the  court  below,  as  she  filled  her  pitcher  of 
water  from  the  fountain ;  Nathalie  saw  and  heard  all  this 
drearily ;  a  load  of  misery  was  at  her  heart.  She  wondered 
how  the  sky  could  be  so  bright  and  blue,  when  the  sunshine 
of  life  was  departed.  How  others  could  laugh  and  sing,  when 
the  delight  of  her  existence  had  vanished  for  ever.  She  read 
the  letter  again  ;  not  once,  or  twice,  but  over  and  over.  She 
dwelt  on  each  word, — and  she  was  ingenious  in  giving  it  tho 


NATHALIE.  433 

most  painful  meaning — so  that  its  sting  might  enter  her  heart 
more  surely ;  that  she  might  quaff  her  cup  to  its  bitterest 
dreg,  and  not  be  cheated  out  of  one  drop  of  her  woe.  For 
when  she  saw  how  miserable  she  was,  she  remembered  how 
happy  she  might  have  been. 

"  I  am  nothing,  it  seems,  but  the  merest  stranger  to  liim 
now,"  she  thought,  with  a  swelling  heart,  "  but  I  might  hav( 
been  hi.«  wife,  and  I  would  have  made  him  love  me  truly.  I 
should  hav^  «r?ont  my  life  with  him,  been  the  mistress  of  his 
household,  the  sharer  of  his  joys,  and  of  his  sorrows,  if  he  had 
any.  He  would  have  left  me  occasionally,  but  I  should  have 
liked  it.  How  pleasant  to  wait  and  watch  for  his  return,  and 
feel  gladdened  by  the  sound  of  his  step;  how  much  more  plea- 
sant still  to  meet  his  smile,  and  listen  to  his  greeting  !"  She 
broke  off,  for  she  had  been  forgetting  herself,  and  losing  the 
truth  in  a  dream.  "And  now,"  she  thought,  despairingly, 
'■  it  is  all  over,  and  even  the  hope  of  this  must  never  return. 
And  my  own  folly  has  done  it  all.  Had  I  the  shadow  of  a 
wish  to  quarrel  with  him  for  power  ?  Why  did  I  not  speak, 
when  we  met  last  night,  and  he  looked  the  farewell  he  per- 
chance did  not  know  how  to  utter?  He  was  mine,  then,  and 
for  that  moment.  Why  did  I  let  him  go  so  silently?  Why 
was  my  foolish  heart  so  full,  that  words  arose  to  my  lips,  antl 
only  died  away  unuttered?" 

She  bowed  her  head,  and  for  the  first  time  wept  long  and 
bitterly. 

The  moi.ning  was  over  when  Nathalie  went  down  stairs. 
Desiree  was  ill,  and  Rose  had  to  attend  to  household  matters. 
The  blind  woman  sat  alone  in  her  usual  place ;  she  reclined  in 
her  arm-chair,  with  her  head  thrown  back,  and  her  sightless 
eyes  turned  towards  the  light,  which  appeared  to  her  like  a 
faint  white  gleam ;  her  hands  lay  folded  on  her  knees — slie 
looked  fretful. 

"  I  wonder  what  you  have  been  doing  up-stairs  all  this 
time  ?"  she  peevishly  asked. 

Without  answering,  Nathalie  took  the  seat  usually  occu- 
pied by  Rose,  and  continued  her  sister's  interrupted  task ;  but 
it  soon  dropped  from  her  hands,  and  this  the  blind  woman'h 
acute  ear  detected. 

'•  You  are  not  sewing,"  she  said  ;  "  I  do  not  hear  the  sound 
of  your  needle  and  thread." 

Nathalie  did  not  reply.  She  was  thinking  that  her  old 
existence  had  begun  anew.     For  a  while  she  had  entered  the 

19 


434  NATHALIE. 

charmed  island  of  promise  wliich  had  so  long  receded  before  her. 
She  had  rejoiced  in  its  beauty  and  tasted  the  sweetness  of  its 
waters  ;  but  now  she  was  cast  back  on  the  dreary  and  deso- 
late shore  of  her  former  existence.  Hope  had  once  lured  lier 
on  ;  despair  was  her  guide  and  companion  now.  The  love  she 
had  given  so  willingly  was  rudely  rejected  ;  the  love  for  which 
she  longed  was  sternly  withheld.  She  might  thirst  in  vain 
along  the  dreary  desert  of  life,  no  hand  for  which  she  cared 
would  bring  the  cup  of  living  waters  to  quench  her  spirit's 
burning  thirst ;  she  might  feel  weak  and  sinking,  no  protect- 
ing arni  would  sustain  her  in  that  wearisome  jouri»ey;  she 
might  droop  and  weep,  no  bosom  would  be  her  haven  of  rest. 
To  render  her  fate  more  bitter,  she  was  gifted  with  memory ; 
she  could  remember  that  a  happier  destiny  had  once  awaited 
her ;  that  she  v/ho  was  now  an  exile,  had  been  blessed  with 
home  and  native  land.  Then  came  the  ever-tormenting 
thought, '  that  by  her  own  hand  had  this  bitter  fate  been 
wrou2;ht.  She  might  have  avoided  it — she  knew  him — his 
sternness  and  his  iron  will— ^the  struggle  between  passion  and 
resentful  severity  which  had  opened  his  existence  as  a  man  : 
but  at  her  cost  this  time  had  the  bitter  victory  been  won. 

"  You  will  neither  talk  nor  work  ;  you  are  abominably  self- 
ish," exclaimed  Madame  Lavigne,  indignantly. 

Nathalie  said  nothing.     She  scarcely  heard  her. 

"  Give  me  a  cushion  to  put  behind  my  back,"  said  the  blind 
woman,  exasperated  at  her  silence. 

Nathalie  rose  and  complied  apathetically.  In  returning 
to  her  seat  she  chanced  to  cast  an  abstracted  glance  at  the 
mirror.  She  paused,  wondering  at  the  strange  image  it  re- 
voaled.  Oh !  this  was  not  the  light-hearted  and  blooming 
maiden,  with  look  so  free,  and  smile  so  hopeful,  whom  she  re- 
membered seeing  there  but  yesterday ;  that  pale,  mournful 
face,  listless  look,  and  drooping  figure,  belonged  to  some  other. 
She  now  beheld  a  suffering  woman,  young  still  in  form  and 
feature,  but  with  years  of  sorrow  on  her  brow. 


NATHALIE.  43: 


CHx\.PTER  XXX. 


Frivolou-s  and  capricious  in  temper,  like  a  true  daugliter 
of  the  south,  Nathalie  was  not  frivolous  at  heart.  What  sho 
felt,  she  felt  passionately,  whether  in  good  or  ill ;  but  even  her 
deepest  feelings  were  subject  to  the  sudden  changes  of  her  tem- 
per. She  always  felt  as  much  in  the  main,  but  she  often  felt 
differently. 

At  first  she  had  been  bitter  in  her  reproaches  and  self-accu- 
sations. It  was  her  own  folly  had  done  it  all ;  she  might,  had 
she  been  wise,  have  been  the  happiest  of  women.  But  grad- 
ually other  feelings  came  to  her ;  she  no  longer  thought  that 
she  was  alone  to  blame. 

Had  Monsieur  de  Sainvillo  ever  truly  loved  one  he  could 
so  readily  relinquish  ?  He  knew  her  with  all  her  faults,  her 
waywardness,  and  caprice  ;  could  he  not  have  been  more  for- 
bearing ?  He  could  !  she  resentfully  felt  it ;  but  he  had  been 
as  stern  and  relentless  with  her  as  if  she  were  something  to 
cru.sh  and  subdue,  and  not  one  to  love  and  cherish.  He  had 
seized  on  the  words  uttered  in  a  moment  of  passion  ;  and  yet 
he  acknowledged  to  her  that  it  was  not  by  those  words  that 
they  were  parted.  It  would  have  been  soothing  to  her  pride — 
though  a  most  bitter  thought — if  she  could  have  imagined  that 
this  separation  was  her  own  act,  and  hers  only.  He  took  care 
to  inform  her  that  it  was  not  so  ;  and  she  was  reduced  to  feel 
glad  that  he  had  not  received  and  read  the  submissive  and  de- 
spairing letter  Avhich  she  had  written  to  him,  after  a  night  of 
misery.  How  would  he  have  received  it  ?  With  the  pity  and 
contempt  which  she  knew  that  he  felt  for  weakness. 

Bat  what  stuug  her  most  deeply,  was  his  promise  of  con- 
tinued affection.  If  he  had  only  spoken  vindictively,  yes,  even 
with  hatred,  she  could  have  forgiven  him ;  for  in  the  depth  of 
his  anger  she  would  also  have  read  the  depth  of  his  self-in- 
flicted wound,  But  never,  alas  !  was  lover's  farewell  more 
calm  or  less  impassioned. 

Many  days  elapsed  before  Nathalie  could  be  induced  to  sec 
Aunt  Radegonde  in  that  dwelling  where  ^he  had  been  so  happy 
and  so  wretched.  The  gentle  Canoness  visited  her  once  or 
twice,  but  she  was  effectually  scared  away  by  the  ill-temperc-d 
growling  of  Madame  Lavignc. 


436  NATHALIE. 

"  My  dear  child,"  she  whispered  to  Nathalie  in  the  door- 
way, '•  how  can  you  live  with  that  dreadful  woman  ?  Do  you 
think  she  is  really  blind  ?  I  can  assure  you  I  have  my  sus- 
picions on  that  subject,  and  you  know  my  penetration.  Oh  ! 
do,  Petite,  do  come  back  to  live  with  me." 

Nathalie  shook  her  head,  and  replied  in  a  low  tone,  that 
this  was  impossible. 

"  Well  then,  come  and  see  me,"  urged  the  poor  Canoness  ; 
"  I  am  dying  of  ennui  in  that  great  chateau  ;  even  Amanda 
has  left  me,  though  I  oifered  to  raise  her  wages  if  she  would 
only  stay.  The  girl  declared  that  she  could  not,  that  the  peo- 
ple here  were  so  arrier^^  so  void  of  ideas,  it  was  impossible  to 
consort  with  them.  Think,  Petite,  how  I  must  feel  it,  and  do 
come  and  see  me  sometimes.  I  have  come  here  twice,  but 
really  I  cannot  come  again,  for  that  dreadful  blind  woman 
looked — and  I  am  sure  she  sees — as  if  she  would  turn  me  out 
the  next  time.      Oh  !  do  come." 

Nathalie  promised  to  call  on  her  old  friend  ;  but  some  time 
elapsed  ere  she  kept  her  word.  On  a  bright  summer  evening 
she  at  length  left  the  dull  house  in  the  court,  and  went  up  to 
the  chateau.  She  walked  slowly,  for  a  heavy  and  unconquera- 
ble sadness  was  at  her  heart.  The  little  town  had  formerly 
been  surrounded  by  a  wall ;  a  few  broken  portions  of  it  still 
remained,  and  at  the  extremity  of  the  steep  street  which  verged 
into  the  road  leading  to  the  chateau  stood  the  arch  of  an  old 
ruined  gateway.  It  was  near  that  very  spot  they  had  parted 
one  evening,  when  by  the  clear  moonlight  she  had  read  in  his 
glance  such  deep,  and  as  she  then  thought,  unconquerable 
aifecti^n.  She  paused,  hesitatingly,  near  the  spot ;  Lad  there 
been  another  path  she  would  have  taken  it.  It  is  a  dreary 
thing  to  see  with  a  changed  heart  the  unchanged  places  where 
we  have  left  a  portion  of  our  former  existence,  and  which,  alas  ! 
are  too  often  the  only  things  that  keep  faithfully  the  dreams 
and  hopes  of  our  past.  Nathalie  did  not  look  around  her  ;  she 
kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  old  gate ;  on  the  burning  horizon, 
which  seemed  to  pass  behind  it  like  a  line  of  glowing  fire  ;  on 
the  west,  where  the  setting  sun  shot  forth  long  slanting  rays 
of  dazzling  light  that  streamed  along  the  winding  road  and 
passed  beneath  the  arch,  giving  a  mellower  tint  to  the  stones 
embrowned  by  age  and  overrun  with  clustering  ivy.  The  air 
was  pure  and  still ,-  not  a  breath  moved  the  creeping  plants, 
which  sprang  thick  and  luxuriant  from  every  dark  cranny  of 
the  ruin  ;  and  the  slender  grasses  growing  betwixt  the  highest 


^'ATIIAL1E.  437 

stones  rose  stralglit  and  still  on  the  blue  sky  unstiiTed  by  the 
faintest  breeze.  But  in  vain  did  Nathalie  seek  to  fix  her  look 
on  the  splendor  of  the  setting  sun,  or  on  the  serene  beauty  of 
the  evening  sky.  In  vain  did  she  seek  to  avoid  glancing  at  the 
spot  -where  they  had  both  lingered  together.  Her  heart  would 
throb  and  her  eyes  turn  towa,i-ds  it  as  she  passed  it  by.  A 
peasant  youth  and  a  pretty  Norman  girl  were  now  standing 
there  conversing  in  low  whispered  tones.  A  jealous  par^g  shot 
through  Nathalie's  heart,  and  she  involuntarily  paused  to  look 
at  them  for  a  moment.  "  What  had  they  come  there  for  V 
she  thought ;  "  were  there  no  other  places  where  lovers  might 
meet  and  talk  of  love,  hope  and  happiness — all  things  lost  to 
her  for  ever  ?" 

The  Canoness  was  sitting  alone  in  the  drawing-room.  She 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy  as  Nathalie  entered,  but  it  was 
soon  checked  by  the  young  girl's  pale  aspect  and  desolate  look. 

"  Pauvre  Petite  !"  said  she,  kissing  Nathalie,  and  taking  both 
her  hands  in  her  own,  whilst  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes  ;  "  it 
was  very  kind  in  you  to  come.  Yes,  very  kind  indeed  ;  for  it 
is  plain  you  do  not  like  it.     Oh  !  can  I  ever  forgive  Armand?" 

"  Let  us  talk  of  something  else,"  quickly  interrupted  Natha- 
lie. 

But  in  spite  of  their  mutual  efforts,  the  conversation 
ever  returned  to  this  theme,  and  at  length  Nathalie  ceased  to 
check  it. 

Who  knows  but  that  as  she  sat  there  at  the  feet  of  her  old 
friend,  in  her  old  attitude,  with  her  head  bowed  and  resting  on 
her  hands,  she  did  not  feel  a  strange  and  bitter  pleasure  in 
hearing  mentioned  that  name,  which,  in  spite  of  resentment 
and  pride,  still  troubled  and  haunted  her  heart? 

At  first  the  Canoness  was  very  indignant  and  prodigal  of 
accusations;  but  when  her  long-repressed  anger  was  thus  dis- 
burtheued,  she  softened  gradually,  and,  without  justifying  her 
nephew,  she  spoke  of  him  with  less  asperity. 

"  You  see,  Petite,"  she  observed,  with  a  sigh,  "  he  is  a  cold, 
reasonable  man,  whom  passion  will  never  blind.  If  he  was  so 
in  youth,  is  it  astonishing  he  should  be  so  still?  We  spoko 
long  together  on  the  evening  before  he  went.  I  said  many  bit- 
ter things ;  he  heard  me  very  patiently,  and  replied,  that  he 
understood  my  anger,  and  that  as  it  proceeded  from  love  for 
you,  he  only  liked  me  the  better  for  it." 

•' '  She  shall  always  be  dear  to  me  as  my  own  child,'  he  said. 
'  I  once  had  other  hopes  ;  but  it  may  not  be.     You  must  hava 


1138  NATHALIK. 

hei-  here  with  you,  aunt ;  the  close  air  of  that  court  where  her 
sister  lives  would  ruin  her  health.  If  she  looks  pule  and  ill, 
procure  her  diversions,  whether  she  will  or  not.  A  little 
travelling  would  do  you  both  good.  Why  should  you  not  go 
together  to  Provence ;  we  have  some  friends  there,  and  Petite 
would  like  to  see  her  native  Aries  once  more.' 

" '  Then  you  love  her  still,  Armand  V  I  could  not  help 
saying. 

" '  As  my  own  child,'  he  said  again.  He  spoke  so  seriously, 
that  I  asked — perhaps  it  was  scarcely  right — '  how  he  would 
like  to  see  you  married  to  another?'  " 

"  What  did  he  say  ?"  inquired  Nathalie,  suddenly  looking  up. 

"  Nothing  at  first ;  but  to  judge  by  his  moody  look  and 
compressed  lips,  it  seemed  no  very  pleasent  idea.  '  She  will 
not  think  of  that  just  yet,'  he  at  length  replied  ;  •  and  when  she 
does  tliink  of  it,  I  have  no  doubt  that  I  shall  have  grown  equal- 
ly reconciled  to  what  is  now  inevitable.'" 

"  Inevitable  !"  bitterly  said  Nathalie. 

"  My  dear  child,"  nervously  observed  the  Canoness,  "  I  am 
very  sorry  to  have  repeated  all  this  ;  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
Armand  made  me  give  my  word  of  honor  that  it  would  remain 
a  secret  between  us,  and  that  I  would  induce  you  to  come  here 
on  my  own  account  without  so  much  as  mentioning  his  name. 
Of  course  I  should  have  kept  the  secret  (you  know  my  re- 
serve), if  it  had  not  unfortunately  slipped  out.  Indeed,  Petite, 
3'ou  must  not  be  too  angry  with  Armand.  He  is  still  very 
much  attached  to  you.  There  is  nothing  he  desires  more  than 
for  you  to  remain  here.  My  belief  is,  that  he  contemplate? 
ultimately  adopting  you  as  his  daughter, — a  much  wiser  plan 
than  the  old  one.  Ind.eed  I  always  thought  it  strange  so 
prudent  a  man  should  have  thought  of  marrying  a  mere  child  ; 
but  I  suppose  the  wisest  have  their  moments  of  folly.  JEntre 
nous,  Petite,  I  think  your  excitable  little  head  deceived  you ; 
and  that  you  never  really  loved  him.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  if 
you  agree  to  this,  you  will  be  doing  Charles  no  wrong.  From  the 
first  I  saw,  with  my  usual  penetration,  that  his  uncle  did  not 
like  him  much ;  whereas  you  were  always  quite  a  pet  of  his. 
Oh !  Petite,  it  will  be  much  more  pleasant  thus.  As  for 
marrying,  I  am  convinced  you  never  will.  I  shall  find  so 
many  good  arguments,  that  I  really  must  end  by  convincing 
you  of  the  beauties  of  female  celibacy.  And  when  we  are  all 
three  together " 

"  Do  not  mention  it,"  almost  indignantly  interrupted  Na- 
thalie ;  '•  such  a  thing  is  impossible." 


NATHALIE.  4o9 

"And  why  so,  Petite?"  quietly  asked  the  Canouess ;  '•  ] 
tell  you  Armand  is  as  fond  of  you  as  if  you  were  his  own 
child.  He  has  said  so ;  and  he  never  tells  an  untruth.  Of 
course  when  love — which  makes  all  the  mischief  in  this  world 
— is  out  of  the  question,  there  will  be  no  more  quarrelling." 

Oh,  poignant  truth !  which  Nathalie  felt  in  the  deepest 
recesses  of  her  heart.  Yes,  indeed,  when  love  was  gone,  they 
might  both  live  in  peace  under  the  same  roof  which  was  once 
to  have  sheltered  them,  not  as  two,  but  as  one, — made  such  by 
what  in  her  faith  Nathalie  held  as  the  divine  sacrament  oi 
marriage. 

She  resented  the  language  of  the  Canoness  as  cruel  and 
unfeeling ;  yet  reflection  assured  her  that  it  was  not  so,  and 
that  if  Aunt  Radegonde  spoke  thus  calmly,  it  was  because 
what  then  passed  in  Nathalie's  heart  was,  and  had  ever  been 
to  her,  as  an  unheard  and  unspoken  language. 

The  young  girl  went  home  that  evening  with  another 
torturing  thought  in  her  heart.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  still 
felt  much  kindness  and  affection  for  her,  but  an  affection 
which  she  resented  more  than  indifference.  For  love  has 
many  nice  and  jealous  distinctions;  it  will  have  all  or  nothing, 
and  scorns  a  part  where  it  gives  the  whole.  The  thought  that 
she  had  never  been  loved  save  as  a  pleasant  and  piquant  com- 
panion, to  be  still  retained  even  when  the  project  of  making 
her  a  wife  had  been  abandoned,  was  a  source  of  ceaseless 
torment,  for  it  robbed  her  even  of  the  past,  that  last  refuge  of 

the  unhappy. 

For  the  first  time  since  his  departure,  she  spoke  openly  to 
Rose.  They  were  sitting  upstairs  in  that  little  room  which 
Jiad  once  heard  such  different  confessions.  Nathalie  told  her 
sister  all ;  the  cause  of  their  separation,  his  harshness,  what 
Aunt  Radegonde  had  mentioned,  and  her  own  bitter  and 
b  aruing  resentment. 

'•  I  will  never  forgive  him ;  no,  not  even  in  my  heart,"  she 
passionately  exclaimed.  "  What  his  aunt  once  told  me  is  true, 
Rose  ;  that  man  has  a  heart  of  stone.  Woe  and  misery  to  the 
women  who  love  such  men  !" 

'•  Alas  !  why  do  you  not  say  woe  to  the  women  who  love  at 
all  ?"  sadly  replied  Rose.  "  My  poor  child,  women  are  idola- 
ters ;  why,  then,  should  they  not  suffer?  Their  adoration  is  a 
fallen  angel  worshipping  earthly  idols  within  sight  of  heaven. 
But  one  woman  have  I  known  happy  in  her  love,  and  she  died 
week  ago.     She  was  poor,  plain,  and  no  longer  young,  but 


0 


t40  NATHALIE. 

she  must  have  been  happy,  for  she  was  truly  loved.  Whei. 
her  relatives  came  to  claim  the  little  she  had  left,  her  husband 
meekly  submitted,  and  asked  to  keep  nothing  of  what  she  had 
brought  him  save  the  pillow  on  which  her  head  had  first  rested 
beneath  his  roof  Oh  !  pure  and  faithful  must  have  been  the 
heart,  who,  when  she  died,  a  wan,  faded  woman,  after  years  of 
toil,  saw  her  as  fresh  and  as  lovely  as  on  the  bridal  day !" 

"  Oh  !  you  may  well  call  her  happy,  Rose,"  said  Nathalie, 
with  much  bitterness. 

'•  But  it  was  a  poor  earthly  happiness  after  all,"  replied 
Rose ;  '•  see  how  pitilessly  it  was  cut  short  by  death.  Oh ! 
Nathalie,  set  not  your  heart  too  much  on  things  of  this  world ; 
one  grave  shall  receive  the  loved  and  the  unloved,  and  when 
earth  has  covered  them  over,  who  shall  tell  the  difference  ?" 

Rose  was  standing  near  the  window,  in  the  moonlight,  as 
she  spoke  thus.  The  tallow  light  they  had  brought  up  had 
burned  away  in  its  socket  whilst  they  talked  together,  but  a 
clear  summer  moon  gave  light  enough  to  their  narrow  room. 
Nathalie  sat,  half-undressed,  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  ;  she  look- 
ed at  her  sister,  and  wondei'ed  whether  it  was  the  wan  light 
now  falling  on  her  features  that  made  her  look  so  pale, 

"  Rose  !"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  are  you  well  ?" 

"  Yes,  pretty  well." 

But  her  voice  was  languishing  and  low.  A  thought  which 
in  her  happiness,  and  in  the  subsequent  misery,  had  never 
come  to  Nathalie,  now  suddenly  smote  her  heart.  She  remem- 
bered signs  long  unheeded,  or  scarcely  understood  at  the  time, 
and  for  a  while  she  forgot  all  about  the  past  or  present  of  her 


love. 


"  Rose,"  she  anxiously  said,  "  I  feel  sure  you  are  not  well." 

"  I  have  not  been  quite  well  of  late,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"  OA,  vion  Dieu  /"  cried  Nathalie,  in  an  agitated  tone,  '-and 
I  neve-  noticed  it.     How  cruelly  selfish  I  have  bean,  Rose." 

She  left  her  place,  kissed  her  sister  and  wept. 

"  But  child,  I  am  not  so  very  ill,"  said  Rose,  smiling  faintly. 

"  Oh,  Rose !  it  is  not  merely  of  your  illness,  I  think,  but 
also  of  my  ingratitude  in  not  noticing  it  before." 

She  seemed,  and  was  really  grieved,  and  Rose  did  not  seek 
to  comfort  ber.  She  thought  that  any  diversion  to  her  feel 
ings,  however  painful,  would  be  beneficial  to  her  sister,  and 
therefore  allowed  her  to  upbraid  herself  freely.  But  the  diver- 
sion was  brief  Rose,  whose  health  had  really  been  failing, 
partly  recovered,  and  Nathalie  became  accustomed  to  the  slight 


KATIIALIE.  441 

Signs  of  ill-health  which  remained  behind.     It  seemed  natural 
for  Rose  to  be  so  pale,  and  to  speak  in  that  subdued  tone. 

In  the  meanwhile  it  was  agreed  that  Nathalie  should  re- 
main with  her  sister.  Rose  wished  it ;  she  thought  she  could 
best  combat  the  young  girl's  melancholy — she  might  indeed 
elsewhere,  but  the  readiness  with  which  Nathalie  acceded  to 
her  desire,  ought  to  have  shown  her  the  dangerous  pleasure 
her  sister  was  likely  to  find  in  this  excessive  retirement.  To 
Rose  this  life  was  natural  and  congenial ;  she  had  submitted 
to  it  in  the  spirit  of  a  martyr,  and  because  it  had  purified  and 
exalted  her  nature :  she  concluded  it  would  do  the  same  for 
Nathalie.  But  slie  had  only  dreams,  vain  shadows  of  the  heart, 
to  conquer,  and  her  sister  had  its  most  burning  reality — a  deep, 
impassioned  love  to  subdue.  Religion  and  duty  had  been 
enough  for  the  elder  sister,  but  more  was  needed  for  Nathalie. 
She  should  have  gone  forth  to  seek  forgetfulness,  have  entered 
into  some  of  the  active  struggles  of  existence,  have  known  want 
and  care  ;  and  these  stern  guides  might,  perhaps,  have  led  her 
through  many  a  rugged  path  to  the  feet  of  peace.  She  knew 
this,  and  shrank  from  it  with  dread  ;  she  did  not  wish  to  forget, 
to  be  cured ;  she  feared  the  solitude  and  indi9"erence  of  the 
heart,  which  prudence  told  her  to  seek.  She  loved  to  brood 
over  the  sorrow  which  had  become  part  of  her  being.  At 
another  freer  and  happier  period  of  her  existence,  she  would 
have  considered  it  a  most  miserable  destiny  to  be  condemned 
to  live  with  Madame  Lavigne  and  Rose  in  this  dreary  solitude; 
but  now  the  case  was  altered.  Nathalie  no  longer  felt  alone  ; 
thft  past  went  with  her  wherever  she  moved ;  it  wrapt  her 
within  its  mournful  shadow ;  it  was  not  in  Madame  Lavigne'f- 
house  that  she  lived,  but  in  a  haunted  world,  for  which  she 
would  have  dreaded  the  open  light  of  day.  She  had  come  to 
the  dangerous  point  of  loving  the  fever  which  fed  and  con- 
sumed her  being. 

Now  that  Nathalie  had  once  more  lost  her  gayety,  her  pre- 
sence was  any  thing  but  acceptable  to  the  blind  aunt  of  Rose. 
She  complained  ;  her  niece  resisted  firmly  and  gently.  She 
only  wanted  her  sister  to  remain  a  few  months  with  her,  and 
when  summer  was  over,  she  would  find  her  another  home.  Ma- 
dame Lavigne  grumbled,  but  the  purpose  of  Rose  was  not  to 
be  changed.  Nathalie  remained  passive  and  indifferent.  She 
saw  that  to  Rose  these  contests  were  rendered  painless  by 
habit,  and  she  herself  became  so  much  accustomed  to  Madame 
Lavigne's  eternal   reproaches,  that  they  fell  unheeded  on  hei 

19* 


442  NATHALIE. 

ear,  and  made  no  more  impression  upon  it  than  the  monotonous 
voice  of  falling  waters  to  those  who  live  within  their  ceaseless 
and  rushing  sound.  In  her  better  moments,  Nathalie  strug- 
gled against  the  torpor  in  all  things  save  one,  into  which  she 
was  gradually  sinking.  She  tried  to  live  to  reality,  instead  of 
leading  a  false  and  charmed  life ;  but  the  silent  house,  with 
only  tlie  ticking  of  the  clock,  and  the  monotonous  grumbling 
of  Madame  Lavigne  to  break  on  its  stillness,  with  its  dull  sub- 
dued light  and  cheerless  aspect,  led  her  back  almost  inevitably 
to  the  land  of  the  dreamy  past.  She  even  began  to  love  her 
prison  ;  like  a  nun  accustomed  to  the  deep  shadow  of  the  cloirf- 
ter,  she  shrank  from  the  glare  of  day,  and  found  both  protec- 
tion and  freedom  in  the  very  routine  which  now  shrouded  her 
existence. 

Thus  passed  away  the  summer. 

Abstracted  and  wrapped  in  her  own  thoughts  as  she  was, 
Nathalie  saw  that  her  sister  was  gradually  though  visibly  de- 
clining. Even  Madame  Lavigne  became  conscious  of  this  fact, 
and  listened  uneasily  to  tlio  sliort  and  painful  breathing  of  her 
niece. 

"  How  does  she  look?"  she  once  asked  of  Nathalie. 

"Very  pale  and  thin." 

"But  not  very  ill?"  rejoined  Madame  Lavigne;  "she  has 
always  been  so,  you  know." 

'•  Rose  looks  ill,  madame." 

"  But  why  should  she  look  ill  1  she  has  enough  to  eat  and 
drink,  surely  ?  I  stint  her  in  nothing.  Is  it  air  she  wants, 
let  her  go  out  and  take  plenty  of  exercise.  But  the  truth  of  it 
is  she  is  not  ill  at  all,  and  this  is  only  your  foolish  imagining." 

"  I  imagine  nothing,"  gravely  replied  Nathalie,  "  but  I  see, 
and  cannot  help  remembering  that  Rose's  mother  was  con- 
sumptive." 

'•  But  she  is  not,"  angrily  cried  the  blind  woman.  "  You 
cruel  girl,  how  dare  you  say  so  of  your  own  sister?  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  Rose  is  going  to  die  ?  Good  heavens  !"  she  ad- 
ded, wringing  her  hands  with  sudden  distress,  "  what  shall  I  do 
then  alone  in  this  house,  with  that  old  tyrant  Desiree?" 

Nathalie  gave  her  an  indignant  look,  which  fell  harmlessly 
on  the  blind  aunt  of  Rose. 

From  that  time  the  young  girl  watched  her  sister  with  a 
degree  of  sorrowful  interest  which  partly  made  her  forget  the 
other  feelings  of  her  heart.  "Whether  Rose  was  conscious  of 
her  state  or  not,  Nathalie  could  not  tell ;    she  looked   more 


NATHAiMK.  443 

thoughtful  than  was  her  wont,  and  there  was  an  increase  of 
gentleness  in  her  manner,  but  when  her  aunt,  in  a  sudden  lit 
of  aflfection,  or  rather  fear,  offered  to  send  for  a  doctor,  sho 
merely  replied  :  '•  It  is  useless,"  and  it  was  hard  to  tell  wheth- 
er she  spoke  thus  from  the  feeling  that  there  was  no  actual 
danger,  or  from  the  knowledge  that  the  time  for  warding  off 
danger  was  already  passed.  Nathalie  did  not  long  remain  in 
doubt  on  this  point.  On  a  dull  autumn  day,  with  a  cheerless 
gray  sky,  that  made  the  dark  room  where  they  sat  alone  work- 
ing together,  seem  more  dreary  and  comfortless  than  of  wont, 
Rose  suddenly  addressed  her  sister,  who  looked,  as  she  had  too 
often  looked  of  late,  pale  and  sad. 

"  Nathalie,"  she  said,  laying  down  her  work  to  look  at  her 
sister,  '•  I  had  hoped  better  things  of  you  ;  at  first  you  strug- 
gled more  courageousl}'." 

Nathalie,  startled  at  the  abruptness  of  this  address — for 
there  was  one  subject  on  which  they  never  spoke — looked  up 
uneasily  and  did  not  answer.     Rose  continued : 

'•  Adversity  has  taught  you  in  vain.  Oh  !  foolish  child,  in 
what  book  did  you  ever  read  that  happiness  was  the  end  of  life, 
and  girlish  love  the  idol  of  a  woman's  heart  ?" 

'•  In  none,"  slowly  answered  Nathalie. 

"  And  yet  you  act  as  if  you  had  not  only  read  this,  but  seen 
it.  Every  useless  feeling  is  guilty,  and  be  it  love  or  resentment 
that  now  fills  your  heart,  it  is  your  duty  to  tear  it  hence." 

"  Rose  !  Rose  !"  almost  passionately  exclaimed  Nathalie, 
"  it  is  you  that  talk  as  they  talk  in  books,  coldly  and  dispas- 
sionately. May  I  not  ask  how  you  should  decide  on  this,  ym 
who  have  never  loved?" 

"  True,  I  have  not,"  replied  Rose ;  "  but  may  I  not  have 
im-xgined  what  love  could  be  ?" 

'  You  !"  cried  Nathalie,  looking  up.  She  saw  a  faint  blush 
mantling  her  sister's  pale  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  fast  filling  with 
tears. 

"  Did  you  think  then,"  said  Rose,  with  deep  and  sudden 
Badness,  "  that  because  I  was  plain  and  unlovely,  I  could  not 
dream  of  what  love  might  be  ?  Did  you  think  then  that  be- 
cause I  seemed  reasonable  and  calm,  I  had  not  a  woman's 
heart?" 

Nathalie  was  too  much  surprised  to  reply. 

"  Nathalie,"  continued  her  sister,  after  a  pause,  '•  I  do  not 
think  I  have  very  long  to  live.  I  believe  you  know  it.  I  have 
at  least  noticed  the  watchful  and  uneasy  glance  which  you  havo 


144  NATUAL!K. 

often  fastened  on  me  of  late.  Before  I  leave  you,  let  me  be 
seech  you  once  more  to  rule  your  heart  and  its  feelings.  Life 
is  brief;  bear  it  in  a  noble  and  courageous  spirit.  I  will  not 
say,  take  example  from  me,  because  our  positions  have  been 
essentially  different ;  but  I  will  say,  hear  me,  and  learn  that 
every  heart  has  its  own  sorrows.  No  doubt  you,  like  every 
one,  think  me  cold  ;  whatever  I  may  be,  cold  I  am  not ;  but 
youth  is  the  key  that  unlocks  after-life,  and  mine  was  very 
cheerless.  Yet  I  too,  calm  as  I  seem  now,  have  had  my  dreams, 
and  dreams  which  would  make  the  wildest  romance  I  ever  read 
seem  poor  and  tame."  . 

"  I  thought  you  did  not  read  romances,"  said  Nathalie, 
more  astonished  than  ever. 

"  Not  within  your  remembrance,  I  dare  say  ;  but  years  ago, 
when  I  was  young,  I  read  many  ;  for  then  I  lived  in  a  land  of 
unreality,  of  which  they  formed  a  part.  No  one  ever  suspected 
it;  I  was  called  apathetic,  and  reproved  as  cold.  This  was  the 
misfortune  of  my  life  ;  I  could  not  make  myself  understood.  I 
felt  it,  and  sought  to  undeceive  no  one.  AVho  would  have 
believed  one  so  pale,  so  plain,  so  inexpressive  in  person  and 
feature,  had  a  Iieart  to  feel?  You  know  how  my  youth  was 
spent  in  this  house  with  my  aunt.  Her  temper  has  always 
been  what  it  is  Slie  so  effectually  checked  every  thing  like  a 
free  and  happy  feeling,  that  in  the  end  reserve  became  a  habit, 
through  which  I  could  not  break.  My  most  acute  sensations 
have  never  betrayed  tliemselves  externally,  and  when  I  have 
suflFered,  I  have  suffered  doubly.  But,  at  the  time  of  which  I 
speak,  I  was  happy  in  my  heart's  imaginings.  All  around  me 
was  harsh,  stern,  and  displeasing ;  but  I  made  myself  a  home 
and  world  of  my  own,  wherein  I  moved  and  had  my  real  being  ; 
where  many  loved  me  as  I  have  never  been  loved,  and  greeted 
me  with  kind  voices  such  as  I  never  heard.  Towards  these 
imaginary  beings  I  turned  all  the  vague  yearnings  of  my  heart ; 
but,  alas  !  that  heart,  human-like,  would  not  be  thus  deceived ; 
it  longed  for  truth ;  my  soul  soon  sickened  at  the  emptiness  of 
its  own  creations  ;  it  turned  away  from  them  with  bitterness 
and  grief  Yet  there  were  days  when,  repelled  by  every  thing 
outward,  I  came  back  penitent  and  weary  to  my  visionary  home  ; 
when  I  recalled  once  more  the  ideal  beings  I  had  loved  of  yore ; 
when  I  held  myself  blessed,  though  it  were  but  for  an  hour,  to 
quench  ray  longing  thirst  at  that  fount  of  deceiving  waters. 
This  sounds  strange,  Nathalie,  and  yet  you  hear  in  mine  the 
history  of  many  a  human  heart.     But  there  is  a  difference 


NATHALIE.  .  445 

between  my  destiny  and  that  of  others,  at  least  amongst  those 
I  have  known.  If  they  dreamed  like  me,  they  saw  their  dreams 
either  broken  or  fulfilled ;  they  drank  from  the  cup  of  know- 
ledge full  draughts  of  bitterness  or  bliss  ;  they  passed  the 
threshold  of  life  and  trod  along  its  lovely  or  its  rugged  paths ; 
and  whether  they  were  blessed  or  doomed,  they  at  least  accom- 
plished their  destiny.  But  with  me  it  •«vas  not  thus.  I  was 
haunted  by  visions  which  tortured  me  because  it  would  never 
be  in  my  power  to  test  either  their  hollowness  or  truth.  The 
knowledge,  the  actual  experience,  for  which  I  thirsted  so  ar- 
dently was  denied  me  for  ever.  Others  passed  on  before  me 
and  engaged  in  the  strife  of  existence ;  I  sat  an  exile  at  the 
doar,  passive,  listless,  and  unheeded.  I  could  not  be  said  to 
live ;  I  glided  down  the  stream  of  life  without  more  power  to 
direct  my  course  than  the  barque  which  is  sent  adrift.  No 
one  seemed  to  wonder  at  this.  Young  girls  came  and  told  me 
their  secrets,  and  let  me  understand  it  was  because  they  saw  I 
had  no  secrets  of  my  own.  They  were  right ;  I  had  no  such 
secrets ;  I  was  excluded  from  existence.  I  sometimes  asked 
myself  if  it  would  be  always  thus  ?  I  knew  that  it  would,  and 
my  heart  sank  from  this  fate ;  from  the  cheerless  relative  who 
was  my  only  stay,  and  the  gloomy  dwelling  my  only  home. 
You  complain,  Nathalie,  but  I  tell  yoTi  that  a  sorrow,  a  real 
sorrow,  would  have  been  bliss  to  me,  for  to  suffer  would  have 
been  to  live.  I  grew  sick  at  heart  and  longed  for  death.  I 
was  not  very  devout  in  those  days,  and  thought  not,  as  I  think 
now,  of  the  Christian's  immortality.  Death  then,  seemed  a 
mournful  and  Le*.he-like  repose,  a  divine  and  lovely  mystery  ; 
I  looked  not  beyond  that  untroubled  sleep  in  the  cool  bosom 
of  the  green  earth  beneath  the  blue  sky.  I  prayed  to  die  with 
the  same  ardent  prayers  I  had  once  put  forth  for  happiness  and 
earthly-love.  I  did  not  say  to  the  Almighty  :  '  Take  my  life,' 
but  I  yearned  for  repose ;  and  every  passionate  wish,  whether 
embodied  in  words  or  not,  is  still  the  heart's  truest,  deepest 
prayer." 

She  paused.  Nathalie,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  with  her 
hands  clasped  upon  her  knees,  was  looking  sad  and  amazed  at  all 
she  heard. 

"  You  would  not  have  thought  this  of  me,"  said  Rose,  with 
a  mournful  smile,  "  of  me,  your  calm,  apathetic  sister  ;  nor  am  I 
now  what  I  was  then.  I  speak  of  feelings  that  have  long  and 
wholly  vanished.  Sorrow  works  its  own  cure.  No  human  lieart 
waa  ever  framed  for  ceaseless   repining.     Mine  left  me  ;   I  re- 


145  .  NATHALIE. 

member  the  day  and  the  hour.     I  sat  alone  in  this  room,  near 
this  window;  it  was  evening,  day  faded  fast,  and  a  few  pale  stars 
shone  from  the  depths  of  the  blue  sky  above  the  abl^ey.      Mj 
heart  was  very  full.     I  knelt  down  and  prayed  in  broken  and 
inarticulate  ejaculations.      '  Why    am   I  alone  ? — Why   does 
nothing  care  for   me? — Others  are  loved — why  am  I  not? — • 
Oh  !    God,  since  I  am  useless  in  this  world — since  woman's 
destiny  is  denied  me — have  mercy  on   me — let  me  die.'      My 
tears  flowed  fast  and  I  sought  not  to  check  them.    I  know  not 
what  day  it  was-^sorae  saint's  festival,  I  suppose,  for  as  I  wept, 
the  old  colored  church-window  before  me  was  lit  up  with  the 
mellow  light  of  many  lamps  within,  doubtless  for  some  evening 
service,  and  the  organ  pealed  forth  with  a  solemn   strain,  and 
soft  voices,  blending  in  religious  harmony,  rose  sweet  and  clear 
in. the  silence  of  evening.     My  rebellious  heart  melted  within 
me     I  remembered  a  sermon  I  had  heard  as  a  child  on  the  text 
of  '  Take  up  your  cross  and  follow  me.'      A  dim  revelation  of 
the  truth  came  to  my  pining  spirit ;  I  saw  and  felt  my  sin  ;  I 
confessed  it  before  God.     It  was  not  my  fate  that  was  grievous, 
it  was  I  who  was  weak  and  shrinking.     My  destiny  was  that  of 
thousands  :  they  suffered   patiently ;  I  asked   to  die.    I  had 
erred  greatly  ;  I  had  considered  happiness  the  end  of  life  ;  it  is 
aot,  nor  is  suifering  ;  those  who  say  so  blaspheme  the  goodness 
of  God  who  has  been  prodigal  of  all  joyful  gifts.     Yet  there  is 
much  of  sorrow  here  below,  and  were  all  pure  bliss,  man  would 
still  find  vexation  and  trouble  in  his  ov/n  unquiet  heart.     The 
end  of  life  is  duty.     Wc  all  hear  this,  but  we  never  know  it 
until  the  truth  is  reached  through  tears  and  sorrow.    Oh  !  why 
may  not  one  bitter  experience  do  for  all  ?    Why  must  human- 
ity age  after  age  be  learning  over  again  the  same  bitter  and 
never-known  lesson  ?    From  that  time  I  entered  on  a  new  ex- 
istence.    I  consecrated  myself  to  the  endurance  of  my  lonely 
fate  with  a  severe  and  holy  joy.     The  cup  was  bitter  still,  but 
I  now  quaffed  it  with  a  fixed  and  upward   look.    When  I  saw 
other  women  happy  wives  and  blessed  mothers,  when  I  remem- 
bered my  own  solitude  with  a  pang  I  could  not  always  repress, 
I  tore  the  envious  feelings  from  my  heart  and  laid  them  pros- 
trate at  my  feet ;  and  I  learned  that  thus  to  subdue  and  triumph 
was  to  live." 

There  was  a  brief  silence. 

"  Mon  Dieii  !"  at  kngth  said  Nathalie,  "  is  it  all  true  ?  You 
astonish  me  greatly,  Rose.  I  could  not  have  thought  you  felt 
such  things.  Did  your  trouble  go  away  so  readily  ?  Pid  you 
suffer  and  repine  no  more  ?" 


NATHALIE.  44? 

It  was  some  time  before  Rose  answered. 

"  No,"  she  at  length  replied,  "  I  cannot  deceive  you,  Na 
thalie ;  no,  my  trouble  did  not  go  thus  away,  and  I  did  not  at 
once  cease  to  repine  or  teach  my  heart  to  submit.  Resignation 
is  a  slow  journeyer,  but  a  long  abiding  guest.  She  visited  me 
late  ;  for  I  confess  to  you  that  one  longing  was  at  first  only  re- 
placed by  another.  The  object  had  changed,  but  I  was  still 
pursued  by  the  same  desire  for  real  practical  life.  I  am  no 
mystic ;  mere  religious  feeling  could  never  content  me.  It  is 
good  to  sit  like  Mary  at  the  feet  of  the  Lord,  but  I  had  more 
of  the  spirit  of  Martha  in  me.  Oh  !  that  I  had  only  been  born 
in  times  of  peril  and  strife;  in  the  days  of  tlie  early  Church, 
and  of  the  triumphant  martyrs.  It  is  hard  to  submit  to  a  quiet, 
obscure,  and  apparently  useless  life  ;  and  yet  thia  I  had  to  do. 
It  had  pleased  Providence  to  give  me  to  perform  those  homely 
duties  for  which  the  world  has  no  flattering  voice,  and  of  which 
no  records  are  kept.  To  stay  near  this  harsh  aunt  who  daily 
reproached  me  for  the  bread  I  eat,  and  yet  who  wanted  me, 
was  my  duty ;  I  resolved  that  it  should  also  be  my  sanctifica- 
tion  and  sacrifice.  Nathalie,  is  your  religious  faith  spiritual,  is 
it  more  than  mere  form  1  If  it  is,  know  that  you  can  never  be 
all  unhappy ;  that  there  is  no  destiny  so  miserable,  but  faith 
can  soothe  and  purify;  none  so  mean  but  it  may  raise  and  en- 
noble to  the  dignity  of  the  holiest  martyrdom." 

She  ceased,  and  the  f;\int  flush  of  her  cheek,  the  transient 
light  in  her  eyes,  showed  the  secret  enthusiasm  of  her  nature. 
Nathalie  was  astonished  and  still  more  moved. 

"  I  respect,  I  admire  you,"  she  said,  "  I  understand  you  for 
the  first  time.  But  no.  I  do  not  understand  you.  Why,  you 
have  been  as  great  a  dreamer  as  ever  I  was,  and  yet  you  were 
so  severe  for  my  slightest  fancies." 

'•  Because,  I  knew  to  what  they  led,"  replied  Rose,  looking 
up;  '-besides,  it  was  a  habit  I  had  taken,  and  I  was  not  merely 
severe  to  you  ;  I  was  as  much  so  to  myself  Long  before  we 
met,  I  had  adopted  as  a  cure  for  all  my  follies  a  strange  reme- 
dy. I  had  decreed  that  I  should  be  my  own  judge,  and  that 
from  my  own  lips  should  fall  the  sentence  of  my  condem- 
nation. Thus  I  made  it  a  rule  to  deride  and  stigmatize  the 
folly  of  my  heart.  I  found  a  cruel  pleasure  in  destroying  my 
own  illusions  one  by  one  ;  in  seeing  them  fade  before  my  cold, 
reasoning  arguments,  as  the  last  flowers  of  the  year  before  the 
breath  of  winter.  Natlialie,  be  wise, — check  your  dreams  in 
time;  wait  not  until  the  re-action  arrives ;  wait  not  to  know 


148  NATHAL  .E. 

the  bitter  joy  of  being  your  own  most  cherished  hopca'  de 
stroyer." 

"  Oh  !  Eose,"  involuntarily  exclaimed  Nathalie,  '•  is  there 
not  something  very  dreadful  in  this  suicide  of  the  heart  ?" 

"  Sad,  but  not  dreadful,"  said  Rose,  with  a  compassionate 
glance,  "  it  is  a  suicide  which  one  outlives,  my  poor  child,  and 
to  show  you  this,  it  is,  that  I  have  said  so  much,  and  recalled 
feelings  that  are  now  for  me  like  dim  shadows  of  the  past. 
May  you  too  thus  struggle  and  win." 

Nathalie  looked  at  her  sister  as  she  once  more  bent  over 
her  task  ;  she  thought  of  the  living  death  she  Lad  endured  for 
years ;  her  heart  failed  her  at  the  prospect  of  such  a  dismal 
victory,  and  an  irrepressible  voice  exclaimec  vvithin  her  in  an- 
swer to  the  wish  of  Rose  : 

•'  Nay,  God  forbid  !" 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Autumn  had  come,  and  Nathalie  wa;.  ctill  the  guest  of 
Madame  Lavigne.  Rose  was  now  so  weak  chat  even  her  aunt 
perceived  it  was  necessary  for  the  young  gi.l  to  stay,  and  she 
was  the  first  to  say ; — 

'•'■  Nathalie,  you  must  not  go. 

A  doctor  had  been  called  in,  but  he  declared  it  was  an  he- 
reditary, and  therefore  hopeless,  case.  He  had  attended  the 
mother  of  Rose,  and  he  said  to  Madame  Lavigne,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Nathalie  and  Desiree  : — 

"  She  will  die  like  your  sister,  quietly  and  without  much 
pain.     She  is  too  weak  to  suffer." 

Madame  Lavigne  heard  him  with  a  sort  of  apathetic  terror. 
She  thought  how  lonely  the  house  would  be  when  her  patient 
niece  was  gone ;  and  what  worild  become  of  her,  when  she  was 
left  blind  and  helpless,  at  the  mercy  of  the  tyrannic  Desiree. 

The  old  servant  listened,  and  said  not  a  word,  but  for  the 
whole  of  that-  day  her  face  was  troubled  and  very  sad. 

Nathalie  was  also  present.  She  heard  the  doctor's  sentence 
with  a  sickening  heart.  She  had  always  loved  her  sister,  but 
never  so  much  as  since  the  time  of  her  own  sorrows,  for  grief 
has  a  strange  power  in  binding  us  to  other  hearts.    Of  late,  too, 


^•A■^IALIE.  445 

since  they  had  lived  beneath  the  same  roof,  since  they  had 
spoken  together  in  closer  communion  of  spirit,  her  attachment 
had  deepened.  A  change  had  also  taken  place  in  Rose  with 
regard  to  Nathalie  ;  her  look  rested  more  kindly  upon  her  ; 
her  voice  took  gentler  tones  when  she  addressed  her ;  the 
coldness  and  severity  in  her  character,  which  had  so  often 
repelled  the  young  girl,  now  seemed  to  fade  away  gradually 
before  the  approach  of  death,  like  the  harsher  features  of  a 
landscape,  which  are  subdued  into  softness  and  harmony  by 
the  shades  of  evening. 

A  few  days  before  her  end  they  sat  together  in  their  little 
room,  where  Rose  had  of  late  remained  almost  exclusively.  It 
was  a  calm  autumn  evening,  full  of  serenity  and  repose.  The 
tower  of  the  old  abbey  rose  in  dark  and  distinct  outlines  on 
the  blue  sky ;  the  colony  of  rooks  cawed  and  wheeled  round  it 
in  circling  flight,  before  they  settled  down  to  their  night's  rest. 
Beyond  tlie  abbey  extended  the  abandoned  cloisters,  and  the 
lonely  churchyard,  with  low  gray  tomb-stones  sunk  into  the 
earth,  and  a  few  dark  cypresses,  rising  tall  and  motionless,  in 
the  stillness  of  evening.  The  sun  had  set,  but  a  rosy  flush 
still  lingered  in  the  west,  blending  softly  with  shades  of  va- 
pory gray,  which  melted  in  their  turn  into  the  deepening  blue 
of  the  upper  sky. 

"  It  will  be  fine  to-morrow,"  said  Rose. 

She  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  which  faced  the  window. 
Her  look  was  fastened  on  the  sky ;  her  countenance  was  calm. 
Nathalie  sat  near  her,  looking  at  her  sister,  and  holding  one 
of  her  hands  within  her  own. 

"How  do  you  know  it  will  be  fine  to-morrow  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Look  at  those  red  streaks  in  the  sky.  Besides,  the  air  is 
so  clear  and  still.  Listen,  and  you  will  hear  the  lowing  of  the 
distant  cattle.  How  faint  it  sounds  !  The  herds  are  comino: 
back  from  pasture.     Yes,  it  will  surely  be  fine  to-morrow." 

The  heart  of  Nathalie  grew  sad  within  her.  Slie  had  sel- 
dom or  ever  heard  her  sister  allude  to  the  beauties  of  nature 
before  her  illness,  but  since  then,  the  dying  girl  seemed  to  love 
such  themes.  The  freshness  of  the  summer  mornings,  the 
warmth  and  life  of  fervid  noonday,  the  fading  loveliness  of 
eve,  were  for  ever  haunting  her  sick  bed.  Although  Rose 
knew  well  her  state,  and  never  expressed  the  least  regret  for 
life,  Nathalie  sometimes  feared  her  sister  was  not  quite  so  re- 
signed, as  she  had  first  thought  her  to  be.  When  Rose  spoke 
thus  of  what  would  so  soon  be  lost  to  her  for  ever,  the  young 


450  NATHALIE 

girl  gently  endeavored  to  divert  her  thoughts.     She  now   ob 
served : — 

"Madame  Lavigne  wishes  to  know  whether  there  is  anj 
thing  you  would  like  to  night  ?" 

"She  is  very  kind,  but  I  wish  for  nothing.  Look  at  that 
.arge,  brilliant  star,  Nathalie.  Does  it  not  seem  to  rise  slowly 
before  us  as  if  it  knew  of  its  own  beauty?  Is  there  not 
something  of  the  spirit  of  life  in  its  light,  so  tremulous  and 
yet  so  clear?" 

"It  is  very  beautiful,"  answered  Nathalie  ;  "  but  I  fear  you 
will  take  cold,  Rose."  She  rose  to  close  the  window  as  she 
spoke. 

"  Do  not,"  replied  Rose,  arresting  her  with  her  pale  thin 
hand ;  "  there  is  no  chillncss  in  the  air,  and  the  sight  of  all 
(his  beauty  docs  me  good." 

Nathalie  resumed  her  scat.     There  was  a  brief  silence. 

"  You  may  close  the  window  now,"  at  length  said  Rose. 

"  The  room  is  almost  dark;  shall  I  get  a  light?" 

"  Not  yet.  My  poor  aunt  being  blind  herself,  cannot  en- 
dure others  to  have  light  burning.  I  do  not  wish  to  vex  he- 
for  the  little  while  I  have  yet  to  live." 

Nathalie  turned  her  head  away. 

'■  Oh  !  Rose,"  she  said  at  length,  "  why  speak  thus  ?  You 
cannot  know." 

"  But  you  do  know,"  gravely  replied  Rose,  "  and  knowing, 
should  not  seek  to  deceive  me." 

Nathalie  did  not  answer.  Her  sister  continued,  "  You  see 
that  I  am  well  aware  of  every  thing ;  we  can  thei-efore  talk 
quite  frankly  ;  and  there  is  a  question  I  have  long  wished  to 
ask  you  :  what  will  you  do  when  I  am  gone  ?" 

"  God  knows,"  answered  Nathalie,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Will  you  stay  here  with  my  poor  aunt,  who  has  sc  gr-eat  a 
horror  of  being  left  alone  with  Deslree?" 

Nathalie  shook  her  head. 

"  You  will  not,"  pursued  Rose,  "'  and  I  cannot  blame  you  ; 
it  were,  indeed,  a  living  death  But  what  will  you  do,  my  poor 
shild  ?" 

"  Trust  to  Providence." 

There  was  a  pause. 

'•  It  is  strange,"  at  length  said  Rose,  "  but  it  seems  to  me 
as  If  you  did  not  speak  with  your  usual  frankness.  Answer 
me  truly — have  you  any  plan  settled  in  your  own  mind  V 

She  bent  forward  as  she  spoke,  to  look  at  her  sister,  whose 
troubled  and  averted  look  confirmed  her  suspicion. 


NATHALIK  451 

"  What  is  it,  Nathalie  ?"  she  gravely  asked. 

"  You  talk  of  settled  plan — I  have  none,  Hose,  but  •when 
Mademoiselle  Dantin  called  the  other  day,  she  asked  me  if  i 
would  return  to  her  school  after  the  vacation  ?" 

*'  Did  you  consent  2" 

"  No,  I  did  not." 

"  But  you  wish  for  it.     Why  so  ?" 

"  It  is  as  good  a  place  as  another,  and  she  has  offered  iue 
an  increase  of  salary." 

Kose  looked  at  her  fixedly. 

"  And  these,"  she  said  at  length,  •'  these  arc  your  motives 
for  going  back  to  that  school,  so  near  that  house  which  was 
once  to  have  been  yours?  Oh,  Nathalie!  do  you  think  me 
blind  ?  Do  you  think  me  unable  to  read  your  heart  and  its  en- 
during resentment.  Oh  !  you  are  indeed  a  true  daughter  of 
the  south — proud  and  vindictive." 

A  flush  rose  to  Nathalie's  brow. 

"  Yes,  Rose,"  she  said,  with  subdued  vehemence,  "  you 
speak  truly ;  .1  feel  it  is  my  mother's  southern  blood,  and  hers 
only,  that  flows  in  my  veins.  And  in  the  south,  if  we  know 
how  to  love,  we  also  know  how  to  hate.  lie  once  said  I  had 
energy  enough  for  the  feeling.  I  will  show  him  he  was  a 
pi-ophet.  He  said  he  would  be  years  away,  do  not  believe  it, 
Hose  :  do  not  believe  it.  He  will  return  soon,  perchance  ;  soon 
enough,  at  least,  for  my  purpose.  He  shall  see  me  the  depend 
entof  a  tj^annical  mistress,  and  he  shall  say  to  himself  that  he 
might  have  spared  me  that  fate,  for  which  I  care  not,  but  which, 
if  what  his  aunt  has  told  me  be  true,  it  will  grieve  and  torment 
him  to  see.  We  cannot  be  so  near  without  meeting  ;  I  shall 
neither  seek  nor  avoid  it.  but  I  know  that  it  will  be  so.  He 
took  one  last  look  when  we  parted ;  I  was  pale  and  sorrow- 
stricken,  then  ;  but  I  am  not  so  now ;  pride  has  come  to  my 
aid,  and  when  we  meet  again,  there  will  be  enough  left  for  re- 
gret, in  the  beauty  that  once  pleased  his  e3'e.  He  will  suffer,  I 
know  he  will ;  let  him ;  I,  too,  have  suffered.  He  will  feel 
that  though  thus  ever  near,  we  are  for  ever  separated  ;  let  him  ; 
I,  too,  have  felt  it,  There  will  arise  in  his  heart  a  ceaseless  re- 
gret for  something  lost ;  an  unavailing  wish  that  the  past 
might  be  effaced.  Let  the  regret  and  desire  rise;  I,  too,  have 
known  them." 

Her  brow  was  knit,  her  look  fixed,  her  lips"  were  firmly 
compressed,  and  for  a  while  her  pale  face  lit  up  with  something 
of  the  deadly  beauty  given  to  the  Medusa, 


a52  NATHAMK 

•'  You  see,  Rose,"  sue  resumed,  more  calmly,  "  that  I  aw, 
as  3'ou  say,  vindictive ;  but  mine  is  the  passing  vengeance  ol 
mere  feeling." 

"  What  becomes  of  your  vengeance,  if  he  is  indifferent  and 
cold  ?"   asked  Hose. 

"  He  cannot,  he  cannot,"  vehemently  replied  the  young 
girl ;  "  he  cannot  bo  so.     Indifferent !  I  defy  him." 

"  And  if  he  repents  ;  if  he  asks  you  to  forgive  the  past?" 

'•  He  will  not  do  so,  Rose ;  but  if  he  did,  I  should  refuse 
him,  as  inexorably  as  ever  he  uttered  refusal." 

Rose  looked  at  her  with  gentle  seriousness. 

"  My  poor  child,"  she  said,  "  can  you  indeed  hold  those 
feelings,  whilst  living,  as  you  do,  in  the  very  sight  and  pre- 
sence of  death.  Look  at  me  ;  think  of  what  I  am,  of  what  I 
shall  be  ere  long,  and  confess  that  the  feelings  of  your  heart 
belong  to  the  perishable,  not  to  the  divine,  part  of  your  nature. 
You  have  received  your  sorrow  as  a  curse,  and  it  was  sent  only 
as  a  chastening  trial." 

"  Oh!  Rose,  give  me  your  faith,"  sadly  replied  JNathalie, 
"  and  I  will  forswear  my  feelings,  and  confess  that  ray  fate  is 
just.  But  how  can  I,  when  I  see  you  so  good,  so  meek,  so 
noble,  condemned  from  childhood  to  passive  sufferings  ?  I  was 
rebellious,  but  you,  Rose,  needed  no  trial.  What  has  your 
wasted  youth  led  to  ?" 

Rose  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  her  sister's  arm. 

"  Nathalie,"  she  said  very  earnestly,  '•  know  this :  none, 
vio,  none  have  ever  suffered  in  vain.  The  silent  tears  which 
the  lonely  night  beheld,  were  not  in  vain ;  the  inward,  and 
still  unknown  strife,  was  not  in  vain  ;  not  even  the  dreams  of 
my  youth,  or  the  sorrows  of  your  love  have  been  vain.  We  are 
linked  to  one  another,  here,  below,  by  a  chain  so  fine,  that 
mortal  eye  can  never  see  it ;  so  strong,  that  mortal  strength 
can  never  break  it.  If  the  sorrow  we  have  known  has  given 
us  a  more  kindly  feeling  towards  the  suffering ;  if  it  has  only 
drawn  forth  one  gentle  word  more,  can  it  be  said  to  have  been 
in  vain  V 

"  Oh  !  Rose,"  gloomily  said  Nathalie,  '•  life  is  more  than 
a  duty,  at  that  rate  ;  it  is  an  eternal  sacrifice." 

"  And  why  not  ?"  asked  Rose,  with  a  kindly  look  ;  "  why 
not?  Yes,  a.  sacrifice.  There  are  many  paths  ;  the  goal  is  one. 
Some — they  are  happy — are  called  upon  to  struggle  for  truth 
and  right,  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man  ;  to  endure  the  weari- 
ness, the  burning  heat  of  the  noonday  sun,  until  the  evening's 


NATHALIE.  ^  4,^.) 


well-eanifed  rest  is  won  at  length.  Oh  !  great  and  glorious  ia 
their  fate — a  fate  angels  might  envy.  Others,  less  h-nown,  less 
tried,  more  happy,  according  to  human  weakness,  accomplish 
humble  duties,  and  follow  only  the  cool,  shady  paths  of  life. 
Tiioy  toil  and  suffer,  too,  but  the  pure  halo  of  a  divine  peace  is 
around  them  still.  To  a  third  class,  whom  the  Almighty 
knows  as  less  gifted  to  act,  less  fit  to  soothe  the  woes  and  cares 
of  others,  another  fate  is  given.  Theirs,"  she  added,  and  her 
voice  grew  tremulous  and  low,  "  is  to  pass  through  life  in  the 
vain  longing  for  doing  better  things ;  in  stagnant  quietness 
when  the  soul's  passion  is  action  ;  their  sacrifice  is  that  of  will, 
and  they,  too,  have  their  reward,  and  enter  at  last  into  the  end 
and  consummation  of  all  things — God." 

But  though  the  soul  of  Rose,  long  purified  by  i£.ith,  could 
rise  thus  high,  that  of  Nathalie,  darkened  by  earthly  shadows, 
could  not  follow. 

"  And  is  this,"  she  asked,  looking  at  her  sister,  "  the  re- 
ward promised  to  virtue?" 

"  And  why  should  virtue  seek  a  reward  V'  returned  the  in- 
exorable Rose.  "  Above  all.  why  should  it  hope  for  what  was 
never  promised — an  earthly  reward?  AVho  first  invented  that 
sinful  lie?  Ci'osses,  sorrows,  and  untold  agonies  of  spirit,  these 
are  its  proper  rewards  ;  let  it  seek  none  other.  But  you  look 
half  terrified.  My  child,  do  not  misunderstand  me.  All  is 
not  misery ;  there  is  joy  in  the  brave  endurance  of  sorrow  ; 
there  is  happiness  in  adoration,  not  in  the  cold  lip-worship,  but 
in  the  fervent  adoration  of  the  silent  heart  ;  and  there  is  a  di- 
vine peace  in  prayer.  For  what  is  prayer  ?  Communion  with 
God  and  humanity  ;  with  the  great  Being  whose  infinitude  is 
beyond  mortal  comprehension ;  with  the  frail  finite  creatures 
who  suffer  here  below  in  their  narrow  space.  I  can  see  you 
pity  me  ;  but  when  ...  have  known  all  these  feelings,  is  it  pos- 
Bible  I  should  think  myself  quite  unhappy  ?" 

"  Do  you  regret  life  ''"  asked  Nathalie. 

"  No  ;  that  were  difficult,"  replied  Rose,  with  a  touch  ot 
sadness ;  "  nature  is  weak,  and  according  to  her,  I  have  not 
been  quite  happy.  But  my  sorrows  have  led  to  this  much  good  : 
that  though  I  am  young  and  see  the  light  of  life  fading  from 
me  fast,  I  fear  not  death.  Can  the  solitary  lamp  which  burn- 
ed unheeded  tlirough  the  long  and  weary  night,  see  witli  terror 
the  dawn  which  tells  the  coming  of  a  purer  day.  We  hear  of 
the  shadow  of  the  valley  of  death  ;  we  should  hear  of  the  sha- 
dow of  the  valley  of  life:  for  life  is  indeed  a  glcomy  valley,  full 


<54  N-ATIIALIE 

of  doubt,  and  still  shrouded  in  dark  mists.  We  descend  ihi-d 
it  we  kocTw  not  how;  obscurity  and  dismay  beset  the  path  wo 
must  tread;  we  journey  we  know  not  whither,  unless  through 
faith  ;  but  as  we  ascend,  tlic  air  becomes  more  pure,  the  sky 
more  clear ;  and  when  we  stand  on  the  crowning  rock,  light 
reigns  above,  and  darkness  at  our  feet." 

She  spoke  with  fervent  earnestness. 

"  I  envy  you  your  living  faith,"  said  Nathalie,  eyeing  her 
mournfully;  "I  am  not  happy,  I  feel  as  if  I  should  never 
again  be  happy  in  this  life ;  but  I  would  not  leave  the  dark 
valley  yet,  and  my  whole  soul  would  sink  with  terror  at  the 
prospect  of  death." 

"  But  you  shall  not  die  yet.  my  poor  child,"  affectionately 
said  Rose,  turning  towards  her  sister  with  a  faint  smile;  "  it 
is  natural  for  you  to  feel  thus.  The  flesh  is  weak  in  youth. 
Faith  comes  with  sorrowing  years,  and  when  we  leave  it&  early 
hours  behind  us,  life  grows  less  dear.  Oh  !  why  at  any  age  is 
death  made  so  very  awful  ?  Why  were  the  scythe,  the  skeleton, 
the  grim  visage,  given  as  attributes  to  this  gentle  deliverer  ? 
I  would  have  him  an  angel,  calm,  pitying  and  sad,  but  beautiful, 
and  no  king  of  terrors.  A  deliverer  he  is,  for  does  he  not 
sever  the  subtle  yet  heavy  chain  which  links  the  spirit  to  the 
flesh,  life  to  clay  ?  Nathalie,  do  you  remember  that  passage 
in  the  service  of  the  Mass,  when,  after  the  Hosanna  has  been 
sung,  the  choir  raise  their  voices  and  sing:  Benedictus  qui 
venit  in  nomine  domini — "  Blessed  be  he  who  cometh  in  the 
name  of  the  Lord?"  From  my  earliest  years  these  words  pro- 
duced a  strange  impression  on  me.  As  a  child  I  wondered 
what  glorious  messenger  from  heaven  was  thus  solemnly  greet- 
ed by  those  of  earth.  I  thought  of  winged  angels  visiting 
patriarchs  of  the  desert ;  of  spirits  in  white  robes  with  diadems 
made  of  the  eternal  stars.  Oh,  Nathalie !  even  such  a  pure 
messei  ger  is  death  to  me  now.  He  comes,  the  bearer  of 
glorious  tidings,  the  herald  of  the  Eternal,  and  I  too  say, 
'  Blessed  be  he  who  cometh  in  the  name  of  the  Lord.'  " 

Rose  bowed  her  head  and  uttered  the  last  words  in  a  low 
tone,  as  if  it  were  something  inward,  and  not  mere  external 
sense,  that  spoke  within  her  The  moon  had  risen  from 
behind  the  abbey-tower,  and  now  threw  its  pale  ray  on  her 
calm  features  and  bending  profile.  As  she  sat  there,  in  an 
attitude  of  monumental  stillness,  Nathalie  gazed  on  her  with 
an  awe  which  is  not  that  we  feel  for  the  dying  or  the  dead. 
Rose  belonged  to  neither :  the  barque  was  not  yet  bearing  bei 


NATHALIE. 


453 


away  over  that  dark  flood  which  leads  to  the  better  land  ;  but 
she  stood  on  the  very  brink  of  the  breaking  waves,  and  her 
clear  glance  seemed  already  to  behold  the  unknown  shore 
beyond.  It  was  this  awed  Nathalie.  To  her  that  other  world 
of  which  Rose  spoke  so  calmly,  was  shrouded  in  mists.  She 
believed,  but  human  faith  is  weak,  and  she  had  too  long  made 
her  home  among  the  dreams  and  hopes  of  earth,  not  to  dread 
bidding  them  a  last  farewell. 

Three  days  after  this  Rose  died. 

It  was  a  calm  twilight ;  she  had  laid  down  on  her  bed  to 
rest  a  while ;  Nathalie  sat  at  the  foot  of  her  couch  ;  au  uncon- 
querable sadness  had  been  over  her  since  the  morning,  when 
Rose  had  given  a  strange  lingering  look  at  the  rising  sun,  ana 
then  turned  away  with  something  like  sudden  pain.  Toward.? 
evening  Nathalie  had  said  to  her : 

"  Do  look  at  that  beautiful  sunset." 

"  No."  replied  her  sister,  in  a  low  tone,  '•  it  is  better  not," 
and  she  steadily  kept  her  look  aA-erted  until  the  last  golden 
gleam  had  faded  away  from  the  walls  of  the  little  room.  Then 
she  turned  and  looked  at  the  gray  sky,  and  smiled — perchance 
at  this  last  victory.  It  was  soon  after  this  that  she  lay  down  : 
she  felt  drowsy,  she  said,  and  wearied,  sleep  would  do  her  good. 
She  spoke  for  a  few  minutes  more  to  her  sister,  then  slowly 
fell  asleep.  She  woke  no  more,  and  Nathalie  never  knew  at 
what  moment,  whilst  she  watched  there  by  her  sister,  sleep  had 
ceased,  and  death  begun. 

"  She  is  sleeping,"  whispei-ed  Desir.'e,  when  Nathalie,  at 
length  alarmed,  called  her  up ;  "  she  was  alwa3'-s  quiet— very 
quiet,  Mademoiselle  Nathalie :  one  never  heard  her  about  the 
place,  she  is  a  very  quiet  girl." 

Bat  when  she  saw  what  sort  of  a  repose  had  fallen  on  the 
quiet  Rose,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  wept  by  that 
bed  of  death. 

Like  a  shadow  Rose  had  moved  through  life,  and  like  a 
shadow  she  noiselessly  passed  away  from  it  when  her  time  was 
come. 

Nathalie  had  not  expected  to  hear  this  event  announced, 
but  neither  had  she  anticipated  the  strange,  heart-sickening 
melancholy  which  now  took  possession  of  her. 

The  degrees  of  sorrow  are  many,  but  all  lead  to  the  same 
bourne  by  the  same  beaten  path.  To  have  suffered  once  is  to 
suffer  for  ever  ;  the  faculty,  like  thought,  is  varied  and  infinite  ; 
let  it  chanse  as  it  will,  it  dies  not,  unless  with  our  being 


456  NATHALIK. 

Once  struck,  tliat  mouruful  chord  vibrates  unceasingly  in  fho 
human  heart,  until  hushed  and  snapped  asunder  by  death.  It 
may  seem  lulled  to  silence,  but  listen,  and  you  will  hear  its 
distant  murmurs  low  and  deep,  like  the  sullen  voice  of  many 
waters.  It  is  the  stream,  which  once  let  loose,  may  not  cease 
to  flow,  the  mouruful  lament  which,  once  awakened,  is  to  sletj* 
no  more. 

In  our  first  sorrow  we  know  not  this.  We  mourn  over  a 
faded  hope,  as  over  the  wreck  of  a  whole  existence ;  we  defy 
future  grief;  all  is  absorbed  by  the  one  poignant  pain  of  the 
present.  But  when  the  second  sorrow  has  come,  why  does  it 
not  rest  until  the  first  is  roused  and  awakened?  Is  there 
between  the  many  griefs  of  man  a  link  of  mysterious  bi'other- 
hood  ?  Are  they  kindred,  children  of  the  same  parent,  watchers 
in  the  same  mournful  vigil,  doomed  to  call  one  another  through 
out  the  whole  weary  night,  and  to  break  for  ever  the  longing 
soul's  repose?  It  would  seem  so.  Time  appeared  to  heal  the 
wound  ;  it  only  hid  the  shaft,  it  only  buried  the  poisoned  sting 
still  further  in  the  depths  of  the  aching  heart.  See  how 
living  is  the  pain  you  thought  gone,  dead  and  buried  !  Like 
Lazarus,  it  slept ;  behold  it  now.  breaking  the  bonds  and  cere- 
ments of  the  grave,  and  rising  from  its  ghastly  shroud  into 
sudden  resurrection  and  awful  life  !  It  comes  as  you  saw  it 
last  when  you  deemed  it  dead,  with  its  train  of  hopes  sere 
and  withered,  like  falling  autumn  leaves,  with  its  unutterable 
agony  of  spirit,  with  all  the  bitterness  of  its  last  parting  pangs. 
It  comes  to  sicken  and  appal  with  the  vision  of  the  former 
years,  bright  and  blooming  once,  pale  and  dreary  now.  It  is 
not  that  the  sorrow  is  sufi"ered  over  again  in  all  its  anguish,  or 
that  the  cup  is  quaffed  once  more  in  all  its  bitterness  ;  but  the 
dull,  undying  pain  is  often  worse  than  the  sharp  pang  that 
gave  it  birth ;  the  dregs  are  more  bitter  than  the  full  cup  of 
grief,  some  sorrows  are  better  endured  than  remembered ; 
better  by  far  the  strife,  the  exquisite  agony  of  passion,  than  the 
heart-sickening  memory  of  its  wreck  and  ruin. 

Nathalie  found  it  so.  She  had  felt  the  loss  of  her  parents 
with  the  brief  acuteness  of  childhood's  grief;  but  her  love  liad 
been  her  first  real  sorrow  ;  she  had  not,  however,  suffered  inces- 
santly— who  does? — there  had  been  moments  of  ease,  almost 
of  happiness,  when  she  either  forgot  or  hoped  vaguely,  but  the 
death  of  Hose  awoke  her  grief  in  all  its  first  passionate 
strength.  Yet  what  afiinity  was  there  between  the  two  sor- 
rows ?     Why  did  the  shadow  of  her  unhappy  love  darken  the 


NATHALIE.  457 

peace  of  that  deatli-bed  ?  She  had  thought  the  last  sorrow 
could  kill  the  first ;  she  now  found  they  went  hand  in  hand, 
and  gave  each  other  new  strength.  Love  is  life  ;  it  shrinks 
from  death  with  terror  and  dismay,  and  if  Nathalie  was  un- 
happy, she  had  not  yet  reached  the  depth  of  despair  which 
welcomes  the  thought  of  annihilation.  She  believed  in  immoi-- 
tality,  but  with  the  dim,  imperfect  state  of  the  heart  whoso 
divinity  is  of  earth.  She  stood  alone  on  a  shore  dreary  and 
barren,  but  she  remembered  the  green  valleys  through  which 
she  had  passed ;  she  hoped  to  return  there  again,  and  she 
shrank  from  the  dark  sea  which  led  to  the  belter  land,  for 
death  to  her,  ay,  even  a  calm  death,  like  that  of  Rose,  jvas  inex- 
pressibly awful. 

Her  heart  was  perhaps  chastened,  but  it  was  also  wrung 
and  dismayed.  What  was  human  love  when  the  destinies  of 
the  beings  who  loved  were  so  brief?  Could  the  illness  of  a  few 
weeks  and  a  sharp  pang  be  the  end  of  a  feeling  that  had  seemed 
eternal  ?  Did  love  die  with  life  ?  or  did  the  sacred  flame 
burn  on  even  when  the  mortal  shrine  which  had  been  its  home 
was  broken  and  decayed,  mere  dust  and  ashes?  She  knew  not, 
and  it  was  because  she  doubted,  that  her  heart  sank  within  her; 
and  this  doubt,  ere  long,  became  the  most  bitter  and  torment- 
ing part  of  her  grief  For  grief  is  of  a  complex  nature  ;  it  is 
no  simple  regret  for  a  certain  good  denied.  That  is  the  feeling 
of  the  childlike  and  the  ignorant ;  that  was  the  sorrow  of  the 
ancients — earnest  and  deep — but  not  the  sorrow  of  modern 
times.  We  pay  the  penalty  of  feelings  more  refined,  and  there- 
fore more  easily  wounded.  That  vague  weariness  of  spirit  which 
leads  to  suicide,  was  to  them  an  unknown  thing.  They  knew 
love  with  passion,  jealousy,  despair,  and  desire ;  but  with  them 
love  was  only  love,  no  more.  They  had  passions,  not  feelings; 
ardent  wishes  and  no  vague  hopes.  They  loved  or  hated  life, 
but  never  wearied  of  it  without  cause.  The  lover  might  die  of 
grief,  but  the  grief  was  simple,  natural,  and  true.  This  was 
because  they  lived  in  a  comparative  state  of  youth  and  inno- 
cence, not  that  innocence  implying  the  absence  of  what  we  term 
sin,  but  that  which  means  a  simple  observance  of  nature's  laws 
and  feelings.  When  the  ancients  lost  that  childlike  simplicity, 
they  perished  in  art,  poetry,  character,  and  power.  They  were 
the  infancy  of  humanity,  immortal,  glorious  children,  sublime 
iu  their  way,  but  children  still,  for  to  them  the  real,  the  actual, 
was  every  thing.  The  spirituality,  the  idealism  of  modern  timea 
Jvould  have  been  to  them  as  an  unknown  tongue.  They  never 
20 


458  NATHALIE. 

could  have  understood  us,  but  we  understand  tliem,  because 
we  have  all  more  or  less  passed  through  that  phase  of  life, 
which  to  them  was  all  existence. 

Whether  for  good  or  ill  we  at  least  are  different.  One 
sorrow  seems  to  wed  us  to  all  the  sorrows  of  humanity.  There 
is  a  secret  link  between  even  the  disappointments  of  the  heart, 
and  the  disappointments  of  the  social  strife  called  life.  To 
women  and  their  altered  position  is  owing  this  vague  and 
almost  querulous  sorrow.  They  are  the  living  embodiment  of 
the  most  heavy  social  wrongs,  and  their  secret  disconteiit  swell." 
the  voice  of  general  murmur. 

Nathalie  was  of  no  metaphysical  turn.  She  felt  acutely 
without  seeking  to  analyze  her  feelings.  She  had  that  genial 
southern  nature  which  rejoices  in  the  sunshine,  but  which  also 
droops  in  the  shade.  She  longed  for  happiness;  she  knew 
not  how  to  suffer  patiently.  She  was  young,  beautiful,  warm- 
hearted, and  she  felt  that  her  fate  was  hard.  She  submitted, 
but  without  resignation.  At  the  same  time  she  neither  sought 
nor  wjshed  to  forget.  Instinct,  far  more  than  reason,  told  her 
that  her  love  had  become  a  portion  of  her  being,  and  that 
should  she  ever  cast  it  away  from  her,  she  would  never  be 
again  what  she  once  had  been.  The  slave  may  break  his  chain, 
but  cannot  effiice  the  mark  of  the  burning  brand.  To  drink 
of  Lethe's  oblivion  is  not  to  be  renovated  in  all  the  purity  and 
divine  freshness  of  youth.  Nathalie  felt  this,  and  she  preferred 
the  draught  of  bitter  but  living  water,  to  the  chill  of  that  death- 
like cup.  Her  love  to  her  was  her  life  ;  she  shrank  with  terror 
from  the  thought  that  it  could  die ;  that  she  had  welcomed  no 
glorious  and  immortal  guest,  bat  the  frail,  perishable  sojourner 
of  a  day  ;  a  thing  made  of  clay,  food  for  the  grave. 

When  Rose  had  once  told  her  that  her  sorrow  would  soon 
pass  away,  she  had  felt  the  deep,  unutterable  desolation  of  spirit 
of  the  worshipper  whose  idol  is  laid  low  and  who  sees  the 
sanctuary  stripped  and  bare.  She  called  her  sister  cruel  in 
her  heart;  she  felt  as  she  felt  once  in  reading  that  awful  dream 
of  the  German  poet,  to  whom  a  voice  cried  out  from  the  depths 
of  the  deep,  "  There  is  no  God."  She  rejected  this  mournful 
atheism  ;  she  clung  to  her  faith  with  all  the  fervent  adoration 
of  youth ;  to  think  that  she  could  forget,  be  happy,  and  love 
again,  was  to  her  no  consolation,  but  a  source  of  most  desolat- 
ing grief;  for  it  said  that  love  was  no  god,  but  an  idol. 

She  resolved  in  her  pride  that  with  her  at  least  it  should 
QOt  be  so;  that  the  feelings  which  had  made  her  suffer  so 


NATHAME.  459 

keenly,  should  be  kept  pure  and  unsullied ;  that  it  should  last 
as  long  as  life  and  be  as  a  portion  of  her  being;  that  time 
might  fade  the  bloom  on  her  cheek  and  whiten  the  dark  hair 
on  her  brow,  but  that  over  her  heart,  and  its  feelings  it  should 
have  no  power.  She  had  heard  that  age  had  the  fatal  gift  of 
chilling  the  warm  blood  of  youth,  that  years  could  weaken  the 
most  impassioned  feelings,  that  death  triumphed  over  love ; 
but  she  scorned  the  belief,  she  cast  it  from  her  with  all  the  ro- 
mantic disdain  of  her  years.  For,  though  her  worship  might 
be  misplaced,  she  too  was  religious. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

NoTwiiHSTAN'DiNG  the  entreaties  of  Madame  Lavigne  that 
she  would  stay  with  her,  Nathalie  returned  to  the  establish- 
ment of  Mademoiselle  Dantin  a  few  weeks  after  the  death  of 
Rose. 

She  had  been  a  year  away,  and  three  teachers  had  replaced 
her  and  failed  in  conciliating  the  favor  of  the  severe  school- 
mistress. One  objected  to  having  her  letters  opened,  and  left 
in  consequence ;  a  second  was  dismissed  as  too  quiet ;  and  a 
third  for  having  failed  in  the  respect  due  to  Mademoiselle  Dan- 
tin,  who  thus  learned  practically,  that  impatient  as  Nathalie 
was,  she  was  upon  the  whole  more  forbearing  than  her  succes- 
sors. She  asked  her  to  return,  scarcely  hoping  that  she  would 
do  so,  and  was  equally  pleased  and  surprised  at  the  ready  con- 
sent of  the  young  girl — a  consent  of  which  it  is  scarcely  neces- 
sary to  say,  she  never  suspected  the  real  motive. 

At  first  the  Chevalier  felt  delighted  at  the  return  of  "  his 
southern  flower ;"  but,  alas  !  a  change  had  come  over  the  blos- 
som :  it  was  not  blighted,  but  chilled  by  the  cold  northern 
breeze  of  silent  sorrow.  The  Chevalier  soon  perceived  with 
dismay  that  Nathalie  no  longer  cared  for  her  knight.  His  ad- 
miration and  old-fashioned  gallantry  wearied  her.  She  thought 
him  very  kind,  no  doubt,  but  rather  foolish,  and  was  in  no 
3iood  to  humor  him  as  of  yore.  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  who 
had  always  been  a  little  jealous,  approved  of  this  change.  In- 
deed Nathalie  daily  rose  in  her  good  opiuion ;  she  conde- 
scended to  subdue  the  manifestations  of  her  temper  in   her 


460  NATHALIE. 

favor.  To  what  slio  still  had  to  endure,  Natlialio  felt  perfectly 
indifferent.  Grief  i.s  a  good  armor  against  the  arrows  of  slights 
and  sharp  words.  This  apathetic  spirit  of  patience  had  at  first 
provoked  Mademoiselle  Dantiu.  She  saw  in  it  the  result  of  a 
deeply  laid  scheme  to  insult  her,  and  hinted  as  much  to  Natha- 
lie, who  oulj  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  reply.  Mademoiselle 
Dantin  soon  recognized  her  mistake  ;  she  also  saw  that  Natha- 
lie was  wholly  altered,  and  that  the  mischief  was  beyond 
remedy.  The  piquant  quarrels  which  had  shed  so  agreeable  a 
variety  over  her  former  existence,  were  gone  for  ever.  Her 
only  consolation  under  this  trying  dispensation  was,  that  by 
once  more  availing  herself  of  the  services  of  her  former 
teacher,  she  had  obtained  a  sudden  and  very  unexpected  influ- 
ence at  the  chateau. 

The  Canoness  having  totally  failed  in  inducing  Nathalie  to 
come  and  live  with  her  after  the  death  of  Rose,  had  at  first 
been  greatly  hurt  and  offended.  But  gradually  her  anger 
eooled,  and  with  her  usual  kindness  she  resolved  to  do  all  she 
could  to  alleviate  the  young  girl's  position.  She  began  by 
sending  her  flowers,  at  which  the  schoolmistress  sneered  ;  then 
a  basket  of  fruit  came  directed  to  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  who 
condescended  to  accept  it ;  and  finally  Madame  la  Chanoinesse 
Radegonde  de  Sainville  requested  the  pleasure  of  Mademoi- 
selle Dantin's  company  one  Sunday  evening,  which  pleasure 
the  schoolmistress  very  readily  granted.  Outwardly  she  ap- 
peared very  little  flattered  by  these  attentions  and  advances  ; 
but  her  inward  self-congratulations  were  great.  Few  things 
could  have  plensed  her  more  than  to  be  a  guest  at  the  great 
house,  and  to  sit  stiffly  in  a  high-backed  chair  facing  the  little 
Canoness.  over  whom,  after  a  month's  acquaintance,  she  tyran- 
nized to  her  heart's  content.  In  exchange  for  the  pleasure  she 
thus  received,  she  showed  herself  very  willing  to  relieve 
Nathalie  as  much  as  possible  from  the  duties  imposed  upon 
her;  for  though  she  would  not  on  any  account  have  confessed 
it,  Mademoiselle  Dantin  perfectly  understood  the  motives 
which  had  induced  the  Canoness  to  seek  her  acquaintance. 

But  Nathalie  obstinately  refused  to  avail  herself  of  the 
schoolmistress's  leniency.  She  felt  secretly  irritated  at  the 
well-meant  efforts  of  the  Canoness.  which  only  increased  the 
fever  they  were  meant  to  soothe.  The  flowers  only  reminded 
her  of  a  lost  and  happy  time ;  she  would  not  grieve  Aunt  Ila- 
degonde  by  a  refusal,  bat  she  gave  them  to  the  children  with- 
out so  much  as  bestowing  a  glance  upon  them.     The  fruit 


TfATHALIE.  46'! 

wbioli  came  from  the  place  of  which  she  was  once  to  have  been 
mistress,  she  would  not  touch,  and  nothinc;  could  induce  her  to 
avail  herself  of  the  relaxation  of  toil  the  Canoness  had  ingeni- 
ously obtained  for  her  from  Mademoiselle  Dautin.  She  had 
come  to  the  school  to  lead  a  life  of  privation  and  suffering,  and 
suffer  she  would.  She  was  up  early  and  toiled  late ;  her  dress 
had  never  been  more  rigidly  simple ;  the  Canoness  wished  to 
make  her  a  few  presents,  Nathalie  persisted  in  declining  them. 

"  But,  Petite,  I  am  tired  of  seeing  you  always  in  that 
brown  dress,"  once  said  Aunt  lladegonde,  with  slight  impa- 
tience. 

'■  That  brown  dress  is,  however,  exactly  suited  to  Mademoi 
selle  Dantin's  teacher,"  replied  Nathalie,  with  great  pride. 

"  Oh !  if  you  were  his  wife,"  involuntarily  exclaimed  the 
Canoness,  "  what  would  he  have  thought  too  costly  or  too  rare 
for  you  ?" 

"  Never  speak  so,  never,"  cried   Nathalie,  almost  angrily. 

"  Very  well.  Petite,"  meekly  replied  Aunt  lladegonde,  but 
it  was  a  subject  that  ever  recurred  between  them. 

Of  the  indulgences  offered  by  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  that 
of  visiting  her  old  friend  was  the  only  one  Nathalie  had 
accepted.  She  did  not  come  often,  and  seldom  unless  in  the 
evening,  when  school  was  over.  It  is  true  that  Aunt  Rade- 
gonde  had  begged  hard  for  those  visits,  but  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  not  merely  to  please  her  had  Nathalie  complied ;  it  gave 
her  a  tormenting  sort  of  pleasure  to  sit  where  she  had  sat  so 
often  ;  see  every  place  and  object  she  knew  so  well ;  to  brood 
over  the  past  so  full,  delightful,  and  rapid,  and  compare  it  to 
the  slow,  dreary,  present,  and  blank  future  of  her  lot.  Yet  it  was 
riot  every  spot  she  could  thus  venture  to  behold  again.  Aunt 
Radegonde  once  sent  her  to  the  library  for  a  book ;  it  was  a 
winter  twilight ;  and  as  Nathalie  opened  the  door  and  entered, 
there  was  something  so  chill  and  desolate  in  the  aspect  of  that 
solitary  room,  with  its  shadowy  light,  blank  fireplace,  unread 
books,  vacant  table,  and  unoccupied  chair,  that  she  turned 
away  with  a  sickening  heart,  and  ever  afterwards  shunned  that 
place.  Thus,  in  the  routine  of  her  old  existence,  in  dreams  of 
the  past  and  silent  endurance  of  the  present,  was  the  greater 
portion  of  the  winter  spent  by  Nathalie. 

Contrary  to  the  prediction  the  young  girl  had  made  when 
speaking  to  Rose,  Monsieur  de  Sainville  did  not  return.  Ho 
was  travelling  over  the  south  of  Europe,  and  wrote  occasion^ 
ally  to  his  aunt,  who  regularly  read  liis  letters  to  Nathalie. 


462  NATHALIT!. 

In  the  first,  he  spoke  kindly  and  affectionately  of  the  young 
girl,  but  latterly  he  ceased  to  mention  her  name ;  and  as  his 
wanderings  extended  further,  his  letters  became  more  rare, 
and  every  time  more  brief.  At  length,  he  remained  two 
months  without  writing,  or  giving  his  aunt  any  clue  to  his 
place  of  sojourn. 

On  a  chill  February  morning,  Nathalie  was  suddenly  sum- 
moned from  her  class  to  the  room  of  Mademoiselle  Dantin, 
who  was  confined  to  her  bed  by  an  attack  of  rheumatism, 
caught  by  watching  the  previous  evening  in  tt  e  garden,  in 
order  to  ascertain  that  one  of  the  servants  had  net  introduced 
some  strange  man  within  these  sacred  precincts.  She  averred 
having  heard  the  intruder  clambering  away  over  the  wall,  and 
the  satisfaction  of  not  having  been  mistaken  in  her  conjectures 
somewhat  consoled  her  for  the  otherwise  unpleasant  result 
of  her  vigil.  Nathalie  found  her  buried  under  a  heap  of 
blankets  :  the  tip  of  her  sharp  nose  just  emerging  from  beneath 
the  bed-clothes. 

"  You  want  to  speak  to  me,  madame,"  said  Nathalie,  without 
sitting  down. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  child," — Madame  Dantin  had  become  very 
affectionate  of  late, — "  I  want  to  speak  to  you  ;  but  pray  be 
seated." 

Nathalie  complied,  silently. 

Madenioiyelle  Dantin  cpughed,  by  way  of  opening  tho 
conversation. 

"  You  are  aware,"  she  observed  at  length,  "  that  it  has  long 
been  my  intention  to  retire  from  the  scholastic  life?" 

"  Yes,  madame,  I  am  aware  of  it." 

"  Well,  I  do  not  mind  informing  you  that  I  believe  the 
moment  to  do  so  has  finally  arrived.  Of  course  I  am  not  going 
to  let  so  prosperous  an  establishment  as  the  only  school  in 
Sainville — my  rivals  have  always  failed,  and  gone  away  deeply 
in  debt — ^go,  as  it  were,  for  nothing.  In  justice  to  my  pupils, 
I  feel  that  I  must  not  do  so.  Madame  Ledru,  a  lady  of 
llouen,  has  accordingly  opened  negotiations  with  me  on  that 
miportant  subject.  The  negotiations  have  been  progressing 
for  the  last  three  months,  unfavorably  at  first,  I  confess,  but 
very  satisfactory  of  late.  Madame  Ledru  was  rather  inclined 
towards  what  I  may  call  the  Talleyrand  school  of  diplomacy, 
but  I  so  plainly  showed  her  that  finessing  and  soft  words  were 
alike  lost  upon  me,  that  she  has  frankly  confessed  herself  con- 
quered.    In  short,  we  are  as  near  agreeing  as  we  shall  probably 


NATHALIE  463 

ever  be.  I  need  not  say  my  first  stipulation  was,  that  all  the 
teachers  should  be  retained  in  their  present  employ." 

Nathalie  bent  her  head  in  silent  acquiescence.  She  felt 
perfectly  indifferent  to  the  contemplated  change. 

"  Tliis  is  not  all,"  resumed  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  after  a 
slight  pause.  "  Madame  Ledru,  after  objecting  to  the  purchase 
of  this  house  and  its  adjacent  garden,  has  nevertheless  agreed 
to  take  them  both  at  my  very  moderate  valuation.  I  must 
confess  that  Madame  Ledru  was  rather  reluctant  to  do  so  at 
first,  that  she  attempted  to  evade  the  point,  but  I  was  so 
resolute  that  she  gave  it  up  in  despair,  and  offered  me  a  certain 
sura  if  I  would  dispose  of  this  house  and  garden  to  some  other 
person  ;  but  I,  conceiving  that  her  objections  were  futile  and 
fantastic,  held  firmly,  and  accordingly  carried  the  point." 

Nathalie  heard  her  with  evident  impatience. 

"  Madame,"  said  she,  listening,  •'  I  fear  my  pupils  arc  taking 
advantage  of  my  absence  to  neglect  their  studies." 

"  My  dear  child,"  sententiously  replied  the  schoolmistress  ; 
"youth  requires  relaxation."  This  was  so  unusual  a  sentiment 
for  Mademoiselle  Dantin  to  utter,  that  Nathalie  wondered 
whether  rheumatism  had  any  effect  on  the  brain. 

"  JBut,  madame "  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  know  what  I  am  saying,"  interrupted  Mademoiselle 
Dantin.  "  Yes,  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  youth  requires  re- 
laxation ;  an  hour's  idleness  will  do  the  pupils  a  wonderful 
deal  of  good.  Besides,"  she  philosophically  added,  "  it  is  no 
use  of  mincing  the  matter,  I  want  you  for  that  space  of  time, 
during  which  the  pupils  must  manage  as  best  they  can  without 
you." 

Nathalie,  who  bad  risen,  resumed  her  seat. 

'•  Well,  as  I  was  saying,"  continued  the  schoolmistress,  who 
liked,  as  she  said,  '  a  logical  sequence,'  "  I  carried  the  point ; 
but  it  does  not  follow  that  if  I  can  oblige  Madame  Ledru 
I  shall  not  do  so.  Far  from  it.  The  truth  is,  that  a  far  more 
eligible  opportunity  of  disposing  of  this  house  and  garden  baa 
offered  itself  to  me  this  very  morning  ;  an  opportunity  which, 
if  I  allow  it  to  escape  me  now,  may  never  return ;  and  yet, 
how  am  I  to  avail  myself  of  it — I  ask  you  that.  Mademoiselle 
Montolieu, — with  these  dreadful  rheumatic  pains  that  do  not 
leave  me  one  moment's  ease  ;  but  I  heard  the  fellow  scrambling 
over  the  broken  glass  on  the  top  of  the  wall,  which  is  always  » 
sort  of  consolation  : — I  tried  to  get  up  a  while  ago,  and  I  can 
assure  you  that  it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  get  in  again 


464  NATHALIE. 

E  have,  however,  great  hopes  in  your  talents  for  business, 
which,  if  they  equal  your  other  talents,"  she  added,  with  a 
gracious  smile,  "cannot  fail  from  accomplishing  the  desired 
object." 

'•  My  talents  for  business,  madame  !"  exclaimed  Nathalie. 

"  Oh,  it  is  so  easy,"  coaxingly  observed  Mademoiselle 
Dautin  ;  "  and  at  the  same  time  it  will  be  excellent  practice 
for  you  on  some  future  occasion  of  your  own  ;  your  marriage 
settlement,  for  instance ;  but  with  regard  to  this  particular 
case  you  will  allow  me  to  give  you  a  few  instructions,  suggest- 
ed by  my  experience.  In  the  first  place,  and  as  you  are  in  a 
highly  advantageous  position,  do  not  compromise  it.  Be  care- 
less, indifferent.  'Sell  this  house?  Why,  you  dc  not  care 
about  selling  it  at  all ;'  you  are  pressed ;  you  yield ,  you  are 
asked  the  price :  '  Ten  thousand  francs.'  The  purchaser  ob- 
jects ; — they  always  do.  You  point  out  the  house  is  large  and 
convenient ;  that  the  garden  is  beautifully  laid  out ;  that  the 
beech-tree  is  celebrated  for  its  beauty,  and  that  there  is  even  a 
legend  about  it ;  that  the  poplars  are  fine  ; — in  short,  it  is  a 
cheap  concern  at  ten  thousand.  Well,  the  purchaser  yields, 
and  then  you  suddenly  remember  that  you  cannot  sell  the 
house  at  all ;  that  it  is  pi'omised  to  Madame  Ledru ;  that  she 
will  be  dreadfully  disappointed ;  indeed,  that  no  earthly  sum 
will  induce  you  to  break  your  engagement  to  her." 

"  Oh,  then  there  is  to  be  no  agreement  after  all !"  very 
seriously  said  Nathalie,  with  something  of  her  old  spirit  o< 
mischief. 

"  No  agreement !"  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  Dantin  aghast 
"Why,  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  what  is  all  this  diplomacy  for 
but  to  render  the  agreement  more  secure  ?  No  agreement  ? 
Ah  !  if  you  only  had  a  little  experience  of  such  matters,  you 
would  know  that  a  business  negotiation  is  very  like  a  marriage, 
never  more  secure  than  when  it  is  nearly  broken  off.  But  to 
resume.  Nothing  is,  of  course,  to  induce  you  to  break  your 
word  to  Madame  Ledru  ;  but  you  think  it  highly  probable  thai 
for  the  moderate  sum  of  one  thousand  francs,  this  lady  maj 
consent  to  wave  her  right.  I  believe  I  have  been  sufficientlj 
explicit.  I  must  trust  the  rest  to  your  native  tact,  and  know- 
lodge  of  the  purchaser's  temper  and  peculiarities." 

Nathalie  looked  up,  suddenly  rou.sed. 

"  This  may  also  serve  to  guide  you,"  continued  Mademoi- 
selle Dantin.  handing  her  an  open  letter  as  she  spoke. 

Nathalie  rose  and  took  it.     She  did  not  read  the  brief  con- 


NATHALIE.  463 

tents,  but  she  saw  the  handwriting  and  name,  and  she  felt  as 
if  a  mist  fell  on  her  eyes,  and  the  floor  shook  beneath  her  feet. 

''  You  see,"  continued  the  voice  of  Mademoiselle  Dantin, 
"  our  neighbor  is  a  close  man  of  business.  He  has  long  wished 
for  this  property,  which  is  indeed  a  portion  of  the  old  Sainville 
estate  :  I  may  even  saj^  that  he  has  made  some  overtures  to  me 
on  that  subject,  but  1  was  not  going  to  sell  myself  out  for  him, 
or  indeed  for  any  body.  Now,  however,  having  learned,  I  sup- 
pose, that  it  is  my  intention  to  retire,  ho  shrewdly  concludes 
this  is  a  proper  time  for  driving  a  good  bargain  (an  old  man  of 
business,  you  see) ;  and  no  sooner  is  he  returned  to  Sainville 
(he  came  the  day  before  yesterday)  than  he  writes  to  me  about 
.it.  Ah  !  if  it  were  not  for  these  rheumatics  !  but  it  ..annot  be 
helped :  besides,  you  may  really  do  as  well.  You  now  under- 
,  stand  why  I  sent  for  you.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  is  to  come 
at  ten,  and  I  want  you  to  treat  with  him.  or  rather  open  the 
negotiation.  I  do  not  at  all  expect  they  will  be  of  the  Talley- 
rand school ;  but  I  have  a  strong  impression  that  he  will 
attempt  a  Bonaparte  coup-de-main,  and  I  Avould  therefore  have 
you  on  your  guard." 

"  See  him  !"  ejaculated  Nathalie  ;  '•  nay,  madame,  it  M'ould 
not  be  right, — it  would  not  be  proper." 

"Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  said  the  schoolmistress,  with  a 
prim  smile,  "  you  know  how  I  respect  such  scruples,  yet  allow 
me  to  sa}',  you  now  go  to  the  other  extreme.  In  the  first  place, 
business  can  be  transacted  with  any  one  ;  in  the  second  place, 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  is  very  different  from  his  nephew." 

Nathalie  looked  up  with  astonishment.  It  seemed  strange 
no  one  should  ever  imagine  what  Monsieur  de  Sainville  had 
once  been  to  her.  She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead  with- 
out answering.  Mademoiselle  Dantin  looked  at  her  with  a  very 
dissatisfied  air. 

"  Really,"  she  observed,  with  much  asperity,  "  I  cannot  ima- 
gine what  you  find  improper  in  what  I  suggest,  Mademoiselle 
Montolieu.  I  believe  I  have  as  strict  notions  as  any  younf» 
lady  on  the  delicacy  and  reserve  becoming  persons  of  the  op- 
posite sex.  Yet  I  should  feel  no  hesitation  in  meeting  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville  on  any  business  matter ;  otherwise  I  mi^rht 
labor  under  some  slight  difiidence  ;  and  it  strikes  me  as  very 
extraordinary  that  you  should  object.  Am  I  to  understand," 
she  added,  with  an  alarmed  air,  "  that  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ia 
not  one  to  be  trusted  with  a  tcte-d-tcte?  You  certainly  know 
him  better  than  I  do." 

20* 


166  NATHALIE. 

'•  Oh,  madanie  !"  exclaimed  Nathalie, "  I  do  not  mean  that^ 
You  might  see  him  assuredly  ;  but  how  can  I  ?" 

"  If  you  allude  to  the  fact  of  my  being  your  elder,"  very 
sharply  replied  the  schoolmistress,  "  I  beg  to  assure  you  that 
it  is  one  of  the  delusions  of  youth  to  imagine  this  fact  makea 
such  a  difference  to  men.  But  I  must  confess  I  am  concerned 
to  hear  such  a  character  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville." 

"  Good  heavens^madame  !"  interrupted  Nathalie  coloring 
with  impatience  and  vexation,  "  is  it  possible  you  should  ima,- 
gine  any  thing  so  absurd  ?" 

"  I  see  no  absurdity  in  it,"  replied  Mademoiselle  Dantin, 
raising  herself  up  in  bed  with  a  dignified   air,  which  was  in- 
creased by  the  white  and  peaked  night-cap,  not  unlike  a  helmet,, 
which  she  wore  ;  "  and  indeed  I  begin  to  understand " 

Here  the  door  opened,  and  Marianne,  still  startled  as  of  old, 
announced  that  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  below. 

"  Come,  my  dear  child,"  said  the  schoolmistress,  whose 
scruples  this  announcement  immediately  banished,  "  do  be 
sensible ;  and  remember  that  Monsieur  de  Sainville  is  a  grave 
man — quite  incapable  of  any  thing  indecorous.  I  should  not 
insist,  but  for  this  rheumatism,  which  will  keep  me  here  heaven 
knows  how  long." 

"  No,  I  cannot. — indeed  I  cannot !"  exclaimed  Nathalie, 
averting  her  flushed  and  troubled  face. 

"  Then  I  shall  go  myself,"  exclaimed  the  schoolmistress,  in 
high  dudgeon,  "  and  we  shall  see  if  Monsieur  de  Sainville  will 
dare  to  misbehave  himself  with  me." 

Nathalie  paced  the  room  with  irresolute  steps,  but  as 
Mademoiselle  Dantin  was  pi-eparing  to  rise,  the  young  girl 
suddenly  stopped  near  her  bed.  and  said,  arresting  her  with  a 
gesture : — 

"  You  need  not.  madame,  I  will  meet  him." 

Her  face  was  pale,  her  voice  was  low,  but  there  was  firmness 
and  resolve  in  both. 

"  You  know  that  you  are  to  ask  ten  thousand  francs,  and  a 
thousand  francs  for  Madanie  Ledru."  urged  the  schoolmistress, 
as  she  was  turning  away. 

'•  Yes.  madame,  I  know." 

"  Stay  another  moment,  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  I  wish  to 
give  you  some  further  instructions.  This  house,  you  are  aware, 
is  very  valuable.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  may  intend  pulling  it 
down,  but  he  cannot  conscientiously  hope  to  get  the  property 
for  less  on  that  account.     Indeed,  I  may  say  this  circumstanco 


NATHALIE.  467 

rather  increases  its  value,  since  this  house,  having  been  in- 
habited by  my  late  lamented  father,  my  filial  feelings  will  bo 
greatly  outraged  at  its  being  touched  ;  I  shall  therefore — apart 
from  the  value  of  the  property,  and  the  damages  of  Madame 
Ledru — expect  a  handsome  consideration.      You  understand." 

"  Yes,  madame,  I  understand,"  calmly  replied  Nathalie  ; 
she  had,  indeed,  heard  every  word ;  but  whilst  the  school- 
mistress spoke,  her  look  remained  fastened  on  a  small  mirror 
before  her.  A  far  deeper  feeling  than  vanity  made  her  look  at 
the  image  which  its  depths  revealed,  and  wonder  if  the  keen 
look  she  was  going  to  meet,  would  find  her  much  changed. 
Nathalie  might  have  felt  quite  easy:  a  little  paler  she  was,  but. 
upon  the  whole,  her  beauty  had  not  sufiered.  There  was  too 
much  wounded  pride  in  all  her  sorrow  for  it  to  afi"ect  the  springs 
of  life  :  her  grief  had  been  deep,  but  never  despairing. 

This  same  pride  which  had  made  her  endure  so  much  in 
uncomplaining  silence,  now  forbade  her  to  avoid  this  meeting. 
She  did  not  think  he  would  imagine  she  had  sought  it ;  she 
would  show  him  she  did  not  dread  it.  He  had  chosen  to  part 
from  her  without  anger,  he  should  see  that  she,  too,  could  be 
dispassionate,  indifi"erent,  and  calm.  Notwithstanding  this  final 
resolve,  she  paused  on  reaching  the  door  of  the  saloon,  and  a 
strange  oppressive  feeling  came  over  her ;  but  she  remembered 
the  past,  called  resentment  to  her  aid,  and  entered.  She  closed 
the  door,  then  stood  still,  outwardly  calm,  but  with  a  beating 
heart. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  sat  near  the  table,  facing  the  glass 
door.  The  dull  light  fell  on  his  features  ;  Nathalie  did  not  feel 
that  he  looked  paler — he  had  always  been  pale — but  more  rigid 
and  severe.  He  rose,  and  slowly  turned  round;  but  as  his  look 
fell  on  the  quiet  figure  of  Nathalie,  standing  in  the  gloom  of 
the  apartrtient,  he  suddenly  remained  motionless.  His  counte- 
nance did  not  so  much  express  surprise  as  incredulity. 

"  He  came  back  before  yesterday,  and  did  not  even  know  I 
was  here,"  thought  Nathalie,  with  a  slight  degree  of  bitterness. 
He  did  not  so  much  as  bow  to  her,  but  she  coldly  inclined  her 
head,  and  said,  as  she  came  forward. 

"  Mademoiselle  Dantin  is  very  sorry,  sir,  that  a  slight  indis- 
position should  prevent  her  from  meeting  you." 

'•  Another  day  will  do  as  well,"  he  replied,  taking  up  his  hat. 

"  Mademoiselle  Dantin,"  continued  Nathalie,  •'  fearing  that 
her  indisposition  is  likely  to  continue,  has  authorized  me  to 
hear  your  proposals,  and,  to  some  extent,  to  treat  in  her  name." 


468  NATHALIE. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  slowly  looked  up  and  ejed  Ibc  young 
girl  very  fixedly ;  but  the  cold,  haughty  glance  that  met  his 
said,  in  language  not  to  be  misunderstood,  '•  we  are  strangers." 

The  possibility  of  objection  on  his  part  did  not,  indeed, 
seem  to  occur  to  her.  She  took  a  seat  as  she  spoke,  placed  a 
quire  of  paper  on  the  table,  and  drew  forward  the  inkstand  as 
if  for  the  purpose  of  taking  notes  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville's 
remarks.  For  a  moment  there  was  a  slight  degree  of  hesita 
tion  in  his  manner,  but  it  vanished  almost  immediately,  and, 
with  composure  equal  to  that  of  Nathalie,  he  resumed  his  scat 
and  said,  quietly, 

"  Having  understood  that  Mademoiselle  Dantin  intends 
retiring,  I  concluded  she  would  no  longer  have  the  same  objec- 
tion to  part  with  her  property  which  she  formerly  manifested. 
Are  you  aware  whether  it  is  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is  so." 

"  Pray,  what  exact  value  docs  Mademoiselle  Dantin  set  on 
her  property  ?" 

'•  Ten  thousand  francs,"  quietly  said  Nathalie. 

•'  Ten  thousand  francs  !"  he  quickly  echoed  ;  "  this  is  surely 
some  mistake  ?" 

"  No  mistake,  sir  ;  Mademoiselle  Dantin's  worda  were  clear, 
and  I  paid  them  all  the  attention  necessary  in  such  matters." 

"  You  are  quite  sure  of  it  ?"  he  said,  with  a  fixed  look. 

''  Quite  sure,"  she  answered  with  undiminished  composure. 

"  But  the  property  is  not  worth  five,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a 
decision  that  justified  Mademoiselle  Dantin's  provisions  of  a 
Bonaparte  coup-dc-inain. 

Nathalie  shook  her  head. 

"  The  property  is  very  valuable,  sir,"  she  seriously  replied  ; 
■'  the  house  for  instance " 

"  Is  only  fit  to  be  pulled  down."  he  interrupted. 

"But  the  garden  is  large." 

"  A  mere  strip,"  he  somewhat  contemptuously  replied. 

"  The  beech-tree  is  very  fine." 

"  Decaying  fast,  I  assure  you  ;  only  fit  to  be  cut  down  and 
sold  as  very  indifferent  timbei*." 

"  The  poplars  are  good,"  rejoined  Nathalie,  who  was  growing 
piqued. 

"  Yes.  but  quite  young,  and  of  the  worthless  fatigata 
species." 

His  manner  was  so  decisive  and  cool  that  it  irritated  Na- 
thalie.    She  rose  and  said,  quickly, 


NATHALrE  469 


• 


''  Very  Avell.  sir,  I  shall  mention  to  Mademoiselle  Dantin 
iLat  you  think  nothing  on  all  her  .property  worth  purchasing." 

She  spoke  with  some  of  her  old  hastiness. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  more  coolly  still,  '-you  quite 
mistake  my  meaning.  On  the  house,  beech,  and  poplars,  I  sec 
indeed  no  value,  for  they  are  valueless ;  but  the  land  itself  is 
worth  somethins;." 

"  Is  it,  really  ?"'  cried  Nathalie,  with  ill-suppressed  resent- 
ment. 

"  Yes,  certainly,  worth  the  sum  I  offered.  At  the  same 
time,  as  it  is  only  natural  Mademoiselle  Dantin  should  attach 
some  sort  of  value  to  the  house  and  trees,  I  am  willing  to  add 
another  thousand  francs.  In  short,  to  give  her  six  thousand 
francs  for  the  whole,  provided  only  I  may  enter  into  possession 
within  a  month.  It  will  take  some  time  to  prepare  and  lay  out 
this  place  for  next  summer." 

"  Then  he  means  to  remain  in  Sainville,''  thought  Nathalie, 
and  the  thought  occupied  her  so  much  that  she  forgot  to  reply. 

"  Do  you  think  Mademoiselle  Dantin  will  accede  to  these 
conditions  ?"  he  resumed,  after  a  pause. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  carelessly  replied  Nathalie. 

"  I  should  like  an  answer  before  I  leave,"  he  continued, 
drawing  forth  his  watch.  "  and  I  have  an  appointment  at  eleven." 

"  She  declines,  sir,  she  declines,"  said  Nathalie,  indignantly  ; 
"  six  thousand  francs  for  a  property  like  this  !  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  shall  insult  Mademoiselle  Dantin  by  mentioning  the 
proposal." 

He  smiled  coldlJ^ 

"  I  assure  you,"  he  said,  "you  may  venture  on  repeating  it. 
A  worthless  house " 

"  It  is  not  worthless  to  her,"  interrupted  Nathalie,  coloring ; 
•'  It  is  no  stately  building,  but  she  has  lived  in  it  for  many  years  ; 
lier  father  lived  here  before  her ;  she  objects,  sir,  to  having  it 
destroyed ;  strongly  objects." 

"For  how  much  will  she  wave  that  objection?" 

"  Sir !" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  express  myself  very  clearly  ;  my  mean- 
ing is,  for  what  sum  will  Mademoiselle  Dantin  consent  to  put 
by  her  feelings  and  resign  herself  to  see  this  house  levelled  to 
to  the  earth  ?" 

"  Are  feelings  bought  and  sold  ?"  asked  Nathalie,  with 
something  like  disdain. 

"  I  believe  it  is  no  rare  occurrence,"  he  calmly  replied,  with 


470  NATHAME. 

* 

that  peculiar  smile  which  she  knew  so  well.  '•  But  if  Mademoi 
selle  Dantin  does  really  object  to  having  this  house  destroyed 
I  am  surprised  the  objection  did  not  occur  at  once  to  so  clear- 
minded  a  person.  She  surely  never  imagined  I  was  buying 
her  rickety  house  for  the  purpose  of  allowing  it  to  stand." 

"  And  why  not  ?"  sharply  asked  Nathalie. 

Without  seeming  to  notice  her  evident  irritation,  he  con- 
tinued : 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  that  in  her  instructions  there  was  not 
some  sort  of  clause  with  regard  to  this — some  sum  named  aa 
an  equivalent  for  her  wounded  feelings?"  He  fastened  a  keen, 
penetrating  glance  on  her,  as  he  spoke  ;  she  colored  deeply,  in 
spite  of  herself,  at  this  instance  of  his  old  clear-sightedness ; 
but  she  merely  replied  : 

"  Mademoiselle  Dantin  is  willing  to  part  with  her  property, 
sir,  otherwise  she  would  not  have  affixed  any  value  to  it." 

"  And  I  believe  the  sum  you  mentioned  was  that  of  ten 
thousand  francs." 

'•  Yes,  sir  :  ten  thousand  francs." 

"  Which  I  cannot  think  of  giving,"  he  replied,  rising 
as  he  spoke.  '■  You  will  perhaps  be  good  enough  to  men- 
tion to  Mademoiselle  Dantin  what  has  passed  between  us. 
She  may  be  induced  to  reflect,  and  alter  her  resolve." 

He  bowed  politely,  and  left  her.  As  strangers  they  had 
met ;  as  strangers  they  parted.  For  a  few  seconds  Nathalie 
did  not  move;  she  remained  standing  in  the  same  spot,  and 
with  her  eyes  fastened  on  the  door  which  had  closed  behind 
him. 

"  Heart  of  stone  !"  she  said,  at  length,  and  burning .  tears 
of  resentment  and  pride  fell  down  from  her  eyelashes  on  her 
cheek- 
Nathalie  was  going  up  to  her  room  for  the  night,  when  Ma- 
rianne handed  her  a  letter  which  had  been  brought  for  her 
from  the  chateau. 

She  knew  the  handwriting  and  seal,  yet  she  felt  no.emotion. 
She  went  up  stairs  quietly,  laid  both  the  letter  and  the  light 
which  she  carried  on  a  table,  and  busied  herself  about  the 
room.  Full  five  minutes  elapsed  before  she  returned  to  the 
spot  where  it  lay. 

"  1  had  forgotten  it,"  she  said  to  herself  ;  for  pride  has  its 
cwn  cherished  deceits. 

She  broke  the  seal  open,  and  read  : 

"  Nathalie,  what  a  mere  child  you  are  !     Is  it  possible  you 


NATHALIE.  471 

thouglit  to  deceive  me,  and  do  you  imagine  I  wished  to  deceive 
j^ou  1  I  did  not  think  to  see  you  at  Mademoiselle  Dantin's, 
ibr  I  did  not  know  you  were  there  ;  but  when  you  thus  sudden- 
ly stood  before  mc,  I  felt  like  the  father  of  a  lost  and  wayward 
child,  who  longs  to  efface  the  memory  of  past  severity  with  a 
caress  and  a  kiss.  I  will  not  say  you  chilled — that  is  not  in  your 
power — but  you  repi*essed  that  mood.  I  saw' that  your  resent 
ment  had  not  abated  ;  that  you  would  be  cold  and  haughty  ;  I 
humored  you.  One  soon  gets  into  the  spirit  of  the  past ;  but 
believe  me,  it  is  an  easy  and  common  accomplishment,  unwor- 
thy of  your  native  frankness  and  my  experience.  Several  times 
I  resolved  to  compel  you — as  I  believe  I  could — to  break 
through  this  distant  bearing  ;  but  upon  the  whole,  I  thought  it 
better  not.  You  wished  to  impose  this  trial  upon  yourself  and 
me ;  you  had  perhaps  the  right  to  do  so.  But  I  do  not  writs 
to  speak  of  this. 

'■  I  once  wrote  to  you  that  we  had  loved  unwisely  :  I  do 
not  unsay  the  words,  but  I  add  that  we  parted  more  unwisely 
still.  I  have  tried  to  unlove  you,  and  found  that  what  might 
once  have  been  easy  enough  had  become  a  hard  lesson  to  learn. 
Oh  !  different  indeed  is  the  love  which  springs  in  the  fervid 
heat  of  youth  from  that  which  entwines  itself  around  the  heart 
of  man  "in  his  maturer  years.  The  one  is  mere  passion,  but 
the  other  is  even  as  the  "blood  that  flows  in  his  veins  :  the  staff 
of  his  life,  the  condition  of  his  being.  Happy  are  those  who 
pass  through  that  first  delirious  phase,  and  never  know  the  ty- 
rannic power  of  the  second.  Where  there  is  judgment  and 
will,  passion  can  be  made  an  obedient  slave,  but  love  is  ever 
master.  When  we  parted  I  remembered  another  such  separa- 
tion linked  with  the  story  of  my  youth,  and  thought  that  after 
one  brief  pang  I  should  grow  calm  again.  I  found  that  years 
had  passed  over  me  since  then  ;  that  the  habits  of  my  mind 
had  changed ;  that  the  elasticity  of  my  first  feelings  had  A^an- 
ished.  I  saw  that  the  love  I  had  thought  to  subdue  so  easily, 
would  long  be  a  living  fire  in  my  heart.  I  vainly  sought  to  for- 
get those  many  trifles  which  had  once  made  you  so  dear  and 
attracted  me  so  irresistibly.  I  was  haunted  by  the  very  tones 
of  your  gay,  girlish  voice,  by  your  cheerful  smile  and  frank 
look.  When  I  strove  to  banish  your  image,  it  only  followed 
me  more  importunately  ;  I  went  from  place  to  place,  but  it  was 
ever  before  me  like  a  living  presence  :  it  looked  at  m«  with  sad, 
reproachful  eyes  ;  for  in  those  day-dreams  I  saw  you  not  as 
you    are — unchanged  in  aspect — but   pale,  drooping,  and  eor- 


172  NATHALIE. 

rowful :  I  could  flot  escape  it  wherever  I  might  go.  For  hirb 
who  lores  there  is  no  solitude. 

''  When  I  saw  how  it  was  with  me,  I  resolved  to  come 
back  here,  firmly  determined  not  to  feign  an  indifference  I  did 
not  feel,  but  to  ask  you  at  once  to  forget  the  past,  and  become 
my  wife.  I  arrived  the  other  evening  without  sending  word  or 
token,  hoping  to  find  you  in  that  place  where  I  had  seen  you  so 
often,  and  which,  I  also  hoped,  you  would  leave  no  more.  That 
you  were  not  there,  was  the  first  proof  I  got  of  your  resent- 
ment. Harsh  I  may  have  been,  yet  mine  has  not  been  the  sin 
no  woman  forgives  :  I  have  not  ceased  to  love.  You  never  had 
been  dearer  to  me  than  on  the  day  wo  parted,  and  I  have  loved 
you  since  then  more  truly  than  ever. 

"  I  write  thus  because  it  is  true,  not  to  move  you.  If  your 
own  heart  does  not  impel  you  to  reconciliation  and  forgetful- 
ness  of  the  past,  I  wish  not  for  either.  Its  arguments,  as  you 
once  said,  are  worth  all  my  logic.  For  this  same  reason  I  have 
not  asked  you  for  an  interview.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  yield  in 
a  moment  of  emotion,  and  repent  it  ever  afterwards.  I  am  not 
changed,  Nathalie  ;  you  can  see  it  by  this  confession  ;  I  am  the 
same  as  ever  ;  if  you  think  I  was  once  too  severe  and  exacting, 
do  not  deceive  yourself,  for  I  do  not  wish  to  deceive  you  :  I 
shall  be  so  still. 

"  How  will  you  act?  I  cannot  tell.  You  have  a  generous 
heart  and  a  resentful  temper.  I  ask  you  frankly  and  honestly 
to  forget ;  you  cannot  doubt  my  sincerity ;  and  because  you 
cannot  doubt  it,  I  do  not  and  will  not  seek  to  influence  your 
feelings.  Reflect  and  decide  ;  whatever  your  decision  may  be, 
I  promise  you  beforehand  not  to  seek  to  change  it.  If  you  re- 
fuse, I  shall  understand  that  by  too  much  severity  I  have  alien- 
ated your  affection,  and  submit  to  that  solitude  to  which  my 
peculiar  temper  and  character  perhaps  condemn  me." 

Nathalie  laid  this  letter  down  and  paced  her  room  with  un- 
even and  irresolute  steps.  He  loved  her  still ;  but  that,  per- 
haps, she  had  never  doubted.  She  felt  not  only  that  he  loved 
her,  but  that  he  had  missed  her  deeply,  and  longed  to  have  her 
back  again.  Yes,  he  would  have  a  cold,  solitary  life  of  it  with- 
out the  gay  and  graceful  girl  who  had  once  shed  the  sunshine 
of  her  presence  in  his  home ;  he  would  miss  her  as  woman, 
companion,  mistress,  and  wife.  For  she  often  felt  that  his 
love  was  a  mixture  of  many  feelings,  that  he  loved  her  beauty 
girlish  grace,  and  piquant  temper,  and  yet  that,  with  all  this 
there  lingered  a  deeper  and  holier  feeling  for  her  in  his  heart 


KATIIALIE. 


47b 


AM  this  she  knew,  and,  therefore,  that  he  should  return  to  her 
did  not  astonish  her  so  very  much. 

But  she  felt  wounded  to  find  that  he  was,  as  he  said  him- 
self, unchanged.  Well  might  he  say  so  !  In  every  word^  he 
traced  she  read  even  more  than  his  old  haughtiness  and  pride. 
lie  came  back  to  her,  indeed,  but  in  no  submissive  or  suppli- 
ant mood  did  he  return.  Not  thus  haughtily  had  he  wooed 
her  when  he  first  spoke  of  love  !  He  had  then  stooped  to  ar- 
gument and  impassioned  entreaty,  and  yet  he  knew  very  well 
that  she  loved  him  in  her  heart,  and  that  little  eloquence  was 
needed  to  win  the  boon  he  sought.  Why  was  he  so  reserved 
and  so  cautious  now? 

"  It  is  pride,  cold  haughty  pride,"  she  exclaimed  inwardly, 
"  he  will  not  seek  to  influence,  because  he  will  not  beseech  for 
that  which  he  most  desires ;  he  would  have  no  interview  Dc- 
cause  he  feared  to  betray  himself  Be  it  so ;  1  shall  show 
him  that  my  pride  is  as  strong  and  as  unbending  as  his  can 
ever  be." 

She  took  up  his  letter  and  read  it  once  more.  Her  heart 
failed  her  as  she  perused  the  beginniag,  but  she  gathered  cour- 
age with  the  close.  Still  she  hesitated,  but  at  length  her  re- 
solve was  taken.  She  wrote  a  few  words  at  the  bottom  of 
Monsieur  de  Sainville's  letter,  sealed  it  up,  and  went  down. 
She  met  the  servant  in  the  passage. 

"  Marianne,"  said  she,  "  can  you  take  this  letter  for  mc  to 
the  chateau  early  to-morrow  morning  ?" 

"  I  can  take  it  to-night,"  replied  Marianne. 

"  And  why  not  to-morrow  ?"  asked  Nathalie,  with  a  strange 
feeling  of  hesitation. 

"  it  will  be  much  more  convenient  for  me  to-night,"  simply 
replied  Marianne. 

"  Oh  !  very  well,"  said  Nathalie,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Are  you  ill,  mademoiselle  ?"  asked  the  girl  with  some 
surprise,  "  your  voice  is  trembling  so." 

She  brought  forward  the  light  she  held,  so  that  its  ray  fell 
on  the  pale  and  troubled  face  of  Nathalie. 

"  No,"  quickly  answered  Nathalie,  "  I  am  not  ill ;  you  are 
right ;  go  to-night — go  quickly." 

She  told  her  to  go  quickly,  and  yet  the  letter  lingered  in 
her  hand.  The  girl  had  to  take  it  of  her  own  accord.  Scarcely 
had  she  reached  the  door  when  Nathalie  called  her  back.  Had 
6ho  altered  her  mind  1  No.  She  merely  bade  her  not  to  be 
long  away,  and  promised  to  wait  for  her  by  the  half-open  door. 
In  less  than  five  minutes  the  girl  returned. 


i74  NATHALIE. 

'•  I  gave  it  to  a  servant,  who  took  it  up  instantly,"  she  said 

'•  Thank  you,  Marianne." 

Nathalie  returned  to  her  room.  She  sat  down  on  a  chair 
and  remained  there  pale  and  motionless,  her  eyes  fixed  on  tho 
fioor,  her  hands  clasped  on  her  kness  for  several  hours.  Did 
she  regret  or  repent  the  final  step  she  had  taken  ?  it  wei-e  hard 
to  tell ;  yet  this  can  be  said,  had  the  letter  been  in  her  posses- 
ftion  once  more,  she  would  assuredly  have  sent  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Three  days  passed  away. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  sent  no  other  letter  to  Nathalie  ;  but 
she  learned  that  on  the  day  after  receiving  her  answer,  he  had 
called  on  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  and  failed  in  coming  to  an 
agreement  with  he. 

"  I  never  saw  so  sharp  a  man,"  angrily  exclaimed  Made- 
moiselle Dantin  :  "  no  matter  what  you  say,  he  has  something 
ready  for  it.  But  his  Buonaparte  coup-de-7nain  did  not  suc- 
ceed with  me,  I  assure  you.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu." 

•  Love  disappointments   evidently  did  not  influence  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville,  or  impair  his  talents  in  matters  of  business. 

Nathalie  repented  less  than  ever. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  she  received  a  note  from 
the  Canoness,  informing  her  that  her  nephew  had  once  more 
departed  on  his  travels,  and  begging  her  to  call  in  the  course  of 
the  erening.  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  whom  this  intelligence 
greatly  irritated,  and  who  was  not,  therefore,  in  the  best  of 
tempers  with  the  chateau,  gave  no  very  gracious  consent,  and 
observed  with  some  asperity : — 

"  I  hope,  at  least.  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,  that  you  will 
be  so  good  as  to  be  in  at  eight." 

Natlialie  quietly  assented.  Thanks  to  the  obstacles  which 
her  kind  mistress  raised  one  after  the  other ;  she  could  not 
call  on  her  old  friend  until  near  seven. 

'•  Oh  !  Petite,"  reproachfully  said  the  Canoness,  as  she  en- 
tered the  drawing-room,  '•  I  thought  you  would  not  come." 

"  I  could  not  be  here  earlier." 

She  sat  down  as  she  spoke,  and   rested  her  head  on  one 


NATHALIE.  475 

hand,  whilst  the  other  hung  listlessly  by  her  side :  she  looked 
neither  right  nor  left. 

"  Are  you  ill  ?"  asked  the  Canoncss,  who  was  eyeing  her 
wistfully. 

'•  I  have  a  head-ache." 

'•  And  yet  you  came  ;  that  was  kind,  Petite,  I  dare  say  you 
guess  how  dreary  I  feel  alone,  in  this  great  house." 

"  Then  you  are  alone  V.  asked  Nathalie,  looking  up. 

"  Why.  of  course,"  replied  the  Canoness,  "  since  Armaud  is 
gone." 

"  He  is  gone,  then  ?"  ejaculated  Nathalie. 

"  Did  I  not  write  that  he  was  V 

"  Yes,  you  did." 

"  Well,  then,  why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Because  1  had  understood  he  meant  to  reside  for  son^o 
t  lue  in  Sainville." 

'•  Well,  I  dare  say  he  changed  his  mind,"  replied  the  Can- 
oness, after  a  pause.  "  You  see.  Petite,  this  is  no  pleasant 
place  to  him.  It  is  not  to  me.  Oh  !  when  you  have  my 
years,  you  will  learn  that  every  place  is  haunted,  and  none  so 
much  as  the  place  where  we  lived  in  youth." 

Nathalie  looked  around  her.  Did  it  require  length  of 
days  to  acquire  that  bitter  knowledge  1  This  place  was  haunted 
for  her  too.  Had  she  not  dreamed  there  the  thrilling  and  de- 
lightful dreams  of  youth — dreams  too  quickly  faded  ;  flowers 
withered  whilst  yet  in  their  early  spring? 

"  No,"  resumed  the  Canoness,  "  it  is  no  pleasant  place  to 
him  ;  I  saw  he  felt  it  when  he  came  back  here  the  other  even- 
ing.    Yes,  the  past  rose  before  him  then." 

She  looked  at  Nathalie  with  some  significance ;  but  a  bit- 
ter smile  flitted  across  the  features  of  the  young  girl. 

"  No  doubt,"  she  said,  '•  Monsieur  de  Sainville  must  be  re- 
minded here  of  many  things, — of  his  early  love,  for  instance." 

"  Oh !  Petite,"  replied  the  Canoness,  with  sorrowful  re- 
proach, "you  say  what  in  your  heart  you  do  not  believe. 
Think  of  her  !  who  thinks  of  her  in  this  wide  world  save  me  ? 
Not  the  husband,  who  instead  of  a  childless,  unloving  bride, 
has  a  wife  and  and  many  children  round  him  now.  Not  he 
whom  she  loved,  and  who  rejected  her  so  sternly  !  For  be- 
tween her  memory  and  him  there  is,  as  you  kllow  full  well,  the 
memory  of  a  second  and  far  deeper  love." 

"  Deeper  !"  echoed  Nathalie. 
Ay,  deeper ;  I  say  not  so  to  justify  him,  for  ray  heart  is 


i76  NATHALIE. 

sore  against  Armand.  There  were  two  young  girls,  one  gen- 
tle and  winning,  the  other  spirited  and  warm-hearted ;  but 
both.  I  may  say  it,  though  you  are  one,  both  beautiful,  pure, 
and  good,  and  very  dear  to  me.  He  loved  and  sought  thera 
both,  and  what  was  the  end  ?  It  was  natural  he  should  seek 
Lucile ;  they  had  been  brought  up  together.  But  you  !  good 
heavens  !  was  there  no  other  woman  he  could  fix  upon  ?  Ha 
had  travelled  far  and  wide ;  he  had  been  years  away ;  Ife  was 
rich  ;  many,  ay  many  of  the  women  he  must  have  met  would 
have  had  him  gladly.  Could  he  not  marry  some  prudent  maid 
or  widow  of  thirty  ?  Why  should  he  fall  in  love  with  you,  pre- 
cisely you,  whom  I  had  fixed  upon  to  remain  here  with  me  ? 
Why  did  he  come  evening  after  evening  to  the  boudoir  to 
teaze  and  torment  you  as  one  does  with  a  bird,  at  whose  peck- 
ing and  vexation  one  only  laughs  ?  Why  did  he  for  ever  keep 
coming  to  the  garden  after  us,  so  that  wo  could  never  be  five 
minutes  alone  %  Why  did  he  make  you  fall  in  love  with  him  1 
It  still  puzzles  me  to  know  how  he  did  that,  since  from  that 
moment  all  went  wrong.  When  I  spoke  you  answered  at  ran- 
dom ;  when  he  spoke  I  knew  he  was  talking  for  you  all  the 
time,  for  he  was  fond  of  you  in  his  way,  and  would  think  of  no- 
thing else  ;  in  short  I  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  sleep  or 
leave  the  room.  Still  it  was  not  tliat  I  minded,  for  I  saw  you 
were  both  happy." 

"  He  was  not,"  interrupted  Nathalie. 

"  Yes  he  was,"  pettishly  said  the  Canoness  ;  "  I  know  him 
better  than  you  do.  It  was  one  thing  when  you  were  away, 
and  one  thing  when  you  were  by.  Then  he  no  longer  looked 
as  he  almost  always  looks — wrapped  up  within  himself,  think- 
ing to  himself,  and  talking  to  himself;  no,  there  was  some- 
thing open  and  friendly  about  him  then.  Ah  !  Petite,  the 
woman  who  l^as  made  a  man  unselfish,  has  achieved  a  mi- 
racle." 

She  eyed  the  young  girl  wistfully  ;  but  Nathalie  remained 
cold  and  unmoved. 

"  He  could  not  forget  you  even  at  the  last,"  pursued  tho 
Canoness  ;  "  he  was  anxious  about  you ;  he  wished  you  to  be 
here  with  me." 

"  To  live  in  this  house,  in  his  house  !  to  eat  his  bread  !" 
indignantly  exclaimed  Nathalie. 

'•  He  meant  to  remain  years  away." 

'■Had  he  meant  to  be  away  for  an  eternity,  the  house  was 
none  the  less  his  :  I  could  not  have  lived  in  it.     Those  walla 


NATHALIE.  477 

would  not  have  sheltered,  they  would  have  stifled  lue.  Oh  ! 
Marraine  !  I  love  3'ou  much,  else  I  had  never  crossed  this 
threshold  again.  I  have  never  done  so  without  pain.  I  have 
never  sat  here  in  this  old  familiar  place  without  a  secret  sick- 
ening of  the  heart :  never." 

"Resentful  girl  !"  said  the  Canoness,  chidingly,  "What  if 
he  were  sorry  ?" 

"  He  is  not." 

"  I  say  he  is.  Do  you  know  him  as  I  do  ?  Are  you  his 
aunt  ?  Can  you  remember  the  time  when  he  was  horn  ?  Have 
you  my  powers  of  observation  ?  He  is  sorr}-,  and  it  serves 
him  well,"  added  the  Canoness  very  bitterly.  '•  I  saw  it  when 
he  came  home  the  other  evening.  'You  are  alone,  aunt?'  he 
said,  and  gave  a  strange,  rueful  look  around,  but  never  men- 
tioned your  name.  I  watched  him,  he  scarcely  spoke,  but  kept 
glancing  about  the  room  very  restlessly,  as  if  seeking  some- 
thing. Once  he  stooped  and  picked  up  the  velvet  clasp  I  wear 
around  my  neck  ;  you  wore  one  like  it  once  ;  he  held  it  up  and 
looked  at  it  silently  in  his  hand,  but  he  never  said  :  '  Is  it 
hers  V  '  I  am  so  glad  you  have  found  it,'  I  cried  ;  ho  kept 
looking  at  it,  and  never  gave  it  me.  '  It  dropped  from  my 
neck,'  I  continued.  He  laid  it  down  soon  enough  then.  After 
a  while  he  got  up  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room  ;  his  old 
habit,  you  know,  and  every  time  there  was  a  sound  below  of 
opening  and  closing  doors,  I  could  see  him  pause  and  listen  : 
but  he  never  said :  '  Do  you  expect  her?'  or  '  Is  she  coming?' 
As  he  was  going  away  for  the  evening,  he  bent  over  the  vase 
of  flowers  on  that  table,  and  said  carelessly  :  '  Where  did  you 
get  these  V  '  Oh,  they  came  from  the  greenhouse,  of  course.' 
I  replied.  '  Then  you  went  there  today  V  '  Went  there  in 
this  cold  weather,  Arniand  ?'  '  Then  who  gathered  them  ?'  he 
asked  impatiently.  '  A  servant,  to  be  sure.'  He  looked  dis- 
appointed, but  st'll  he  would  not  utter  your  name.  The  whole 
of  the  next  day  he  remained  at  home  ;  he  was  tired  he  said, 
but  he  was  expecting  you,  for  he  never  left  me.  I  have  learned 
since  he  had  forbade  the  servants  to  say  he  had  returned.  In 
the  course  of  the  evening  he  looked  up  at  me  once  or  twice  ;  I 
thought  he  was  going  to  speak,  but  he  did  not — and  I  said 
ncthin^.' 

The  Canoness  paused,  and  again  looked"^  the  young  gin. 
A  slight  emotion  passed  over  the  features  of  Nathalie,  but  she 
eaid  calmly :  '•  I  grant  that  he  is  sorry  ;  I  should  not  have 
denied  it;  indeed,  why  deceive  you?  He  has  a.?kfd  nic  tc 
So-<rot  the  past  and  become  his  wife  " 


678  NATHALIE. 

The  Cauoness  looked  confounded. 

"  He  has  !"  she  at  length  exclaimed,  "  and  ^vhat  answer  (113 
you  give  ?" 

"  That  to  forget  is  not  to  forgive  !" 

"  You  refused  ?"  cried  the  Canoness,  in  a  tone  of  angry  re 
proach.     "  Oh,  Petite  !  I  thought  you  loved  me  !    You  refused 
when  all  might  have  been  made  right ;  when  you  might  have 
been  married  to  him,  and  we  could  have  lived  all  three  to- 
gether— so  comfortably." 

Nathalie  did  not  answer. 

"  If  I  had  only  guessed  it,  I  would  not  have  allowed  it," 
dismally  continued  Aunt  Radegonde.  "  Surely  I  have  a  right 
to  interfere;  but  who  thinks  of  me?  who  cares  for  me?" 
"  Prav,"  she  added,  with  a  very  melancholy  groan,  "  when  was 
it?"  " 

'•  On  Monday ;  he  wrote  to  me." 

"  It  was  like  his  pride ;  he  should  have  seen  you,  and  not 
left  you  until  3'ou  said  '  yes.'  " 

"  But  he  would  not.  nor  would  I  consent,"  replied  Nathalie, 
with  a  smile  at  her  self-inflicted  wound. 

"  Did  you  write  back  to  him  on  Monday  evening  ?"  asked 
the  Canoness. 

"  Yes,  on  Monday  evening,"  quietly  replied  Nathalie. 

"  Then  that  was  the  letter  he  received  whilst  here  with  me," 
thoughtfully  resumed  the  Canoness. 

"  What  did  he  say?  how  did  he  look?"  exclaimed  Natha- 
lie, laying  her  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  Canoness,  and  fastening 
a  burning  look  upon  her. 

"  Say,  child,"  replied  Aunt  Radegonde,  a  little  startled.. 
"  why.  if  he  had  said  any  thing,  I  should  have  known." 

'•  Well,  but  how  did  he  look  ?"  urged  Nathalie. 

"  Why,  as  usual." 

'•  Not  grieved — not  sorry." 

"  How  can  I  tell,  Petite  ?  He  seldom  shows  any  thing  of 
the  sort,  and  my  penetration  was  not  in  the  least  on  the  alert 
about  that  letter  ;  I  thought  it  came  from  Mademoiselle  Dan- 
tin.  When  the  servant  brought  it  in,  he  just  glanced  at  it,  aa 
he  took  it  from  the  plate,  and  laid  it  down  then  without  seem- 
ing in  any  great  hurry  to  open  it.  Yet,  I  remember  now,  he 
looked  rather  tl^ughtful  as  he  stood  before  me  on  the  hearth 
within  reach  of  ine  table.  Well,  he  did  take  it  up  and  read  it 
at  length,  and  stood  for  a  while  with  it  in  his  hand." 

"  How  did  he  look  then  ?" 

"  As  usual      He  quietly  folded  it  up." 


NATIIALrE.  479 

"  Without  lookinii;  at  it  ao;ain?"  exclaimed  Nathalio 
"  Yes,  Petite ;  well,  he  folded  it  up,  and  put  it  into  his 
pocket-book,  and — that  waa  all." 

'■  And  that  was  all  !"  echoed  Nathalie,  falling  back  into  her 
old  attitude,  and  relaxing  her  hold  of  the  Canoness's  arm. 
"  Not  one  doubt  that  sight  might  have  deceived  him  ;  not  one 
despairing  feeling  to  make  him  say,  '  this  cannot  be  true,'  not 
even  an  exclamation  or  a  look  of  regret.  Oh  !  if  he  believed 
it  so  readily,  he  never  loved  me." 

"  He  did  love  you,  he  does  love  you  still,  foolish  child," 
ruefully  said  the  Canoness,  "  and  since  he  loved  you  bo  well  a.'? 
to  conquer  his  pride,  he  would  have  made  you  a  very  happy 
woman.  Oh  !  the  pleasant  evenings  we  should  have  had  all 
three  by  the  fireside  ;  but  through  your  obstinacy,"  she  added, 
rocking  herself  in  her  chair,  "  all  this  is  upset ;  I  am,  of  course, 
to  remain  alone;  I  who  might  have  had  so  delightful  an  old 
age  ;  he  will  live  and  die  an  old  bachelor,  alone  ;  and  you  will 
live  and  die  an  old  maid,  like  Mademoiselle  Dantin — alone,  of 
course." 

Be  it  so,"  replied  Nathalie,  with  something  like  energy  : 
be  it  so,  I  can  endure  that  fate  ;  solitude  may  sadden,  but 
shall  not  terrify  me.  I  have  shown  him  at  least  that  his 
wealth  and  rank  could  not  bribe  the  poor  teacher.'' 
The  Canoness  shook  her  head  and  coughed  dryly. 
'•  Foolish  child,"  she  said  again,  "  do  you  know  Armand  so 
little,  as  not  to  be  aware  that  he  has  a  very  good  opinion  of 
himself?  What  man  has  not  ?  Why,  it  would  not  so  much 
as  enter  his  head  that  a  woman  did  not  marry  him  for  love  ! 
Besides,  he  knows  you  so  well.      Oh  !  foolish,  foolish  child  !" 

She  shook  her  head  and  groaned.  Nathalie  looked  up  at 
her  hesitatingly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  he  knows  me  so  well  ?"  she 
asked  at  length. 

'■'•  I  mean  that  he  knows  your  character.  Shortly  after 
that  evening  when  he  told  me  he  was  going  to  marry  you.  I 
asked  him  why  he  had  set  his  mind  on  so  young  a  girl ! 
'  Because  I  love  her,'  he  carelessly  replied ;  he  was  never  very 
fond  of  answering  questions.  '  Well,  but  why  do  you  love  her, 
Armand  V  I  persisted,  for  though  I  am  not  inquisitive,  I 
wished  to  know.  '  Because  slie  is  young,  pretty,  and  charm- 
ing,' he  answered.  I  said  I  was  sure  he  had  some  better 
reason.  '  Well,  then,'  he  said,  '  it  is  because  ^he  has  such  a 
good,  generous  heart.'     '  How  do  you  know  V  I  askcJ,  to  try 


480 


NATHALIE. 


liim.  '  How  !  why  by  her  look,  her  smile,  her  voice ;  by  her 
very  way  of  speaking,  by  her  step  if  you  like.  Be  content, 
aunt,  I  am  never  mistaken  in  character,  and  I  know  exactly 
what  sort  of  a  bride  I  am  wooing.  She  charms  me  because  she 
is  very  pretty,  and  I  am  not  of  those  whom  beauty  terrifies.  She 
provokes  me  with  her  changeable  temper,  but  I  like  to  be  thus 
provoked,  and  feel  in  myself  enough  power  to  rule.'  " 

_"  He  said  tliat?"  interrupted  Nathalie,  with  great  indig- 
nation. 

'•Yes,  Petite,  but  let  me  go  on,"  replied  the  Canoness, 
looking  at  the  clock.  "  '  She  makes  me  love  her,'  he  continued, 
'because  she  has  such  a  very  warm,  guileless  nature.  It  is 
lilic  a  summer's  day  of  her  own  Provence — rather  hot,  but 
how  bright  and  genial  !  Indeed,  aunt,  though  you  look  so 
doubtful,  she  shall  be  happy  and  have  her  way'in  almost  every 
thing.  Yes,  she  shall  feed,  comfort  and  cherish  as  many 
■protegees  as  she  likes,  and  fill  the  house  with  pets  if  she  chooses. 
No  doubt  she  will  be  imposed  upon  every  day — never  to  be 
made  wiser, — there  is  no  cure  for  a  kind  heart — and  no  doubt 
both  proUg^es  and  pets  will  be  wonderful  pests,  but  in  all  that 
can  gladden  her — poor  child  !  she  is  easily  gladdened — in  all 
that  can  make  her  cheerful  face  wear  a  more  cheerful  look,  she 
shall  have  her  way.'  Well,  Petite,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 
suddenly  added  the  Canoness,  as  she  saw  Nathalie  bury  her 
("ace  in  her  hands  and  weep  bitterly. 

"  Oh  !  aunt,"  she  cried,  looking  up  and  rising  as  she  spoke, 
'•  do  you  think  I  have  no  heart  1  do  not.  pray  do  not  torment 
me  so  !  Do  not  tell  me  how  kindly  he  loved  me  once.  I  know 
it,  let  me  forget  it.  Why  have  you  spoken  thus  the  whole 
evening  ?  Why  do  you  keep  telling  me  he  regrets  me  1  Did 
I  not,  too,  feel  something  on  coming  in  here  this  evening  ?  Did 
I  not  say  to  myself:  '  this  is  the  place  he  left  a  few  hours  back, 
and  where  the  warmth  and  breath  of  his  presence  still  linger  ?' 
I  am  proud,  resentful,  I  have  rejected  him ;  but  I  am  made 
of  flesh  and  blood,  I  have  a  woman's  heart,  and  when  I  think 
of  him  and  say  to  myself,  '  it  is  past,  it  is  quite  over ;  he  is 
gone  again,  perchance  for  years,'  that  heart  feels  as  if  it  were 
well-nigh  breaking." 

She  spoke  with  passionate  vehemence,  and  many  broken 
sobs.  The  Canoness  was  strangely  moved ;  her  features 
worked  ;  she  rose  from  her  seat  and  clasped  her  hands  ;  they 
trembled  visibly ;  indeed,  she  shook  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Petite."  she  said  in  a  broken  tone,  '-it  is  true  he  has  gone; 


NATHALIE.  481 

but  I  never  said  he  would  be  so  long  away.  He  may  come 
back  sooner,  much  sooner  than  one  thinks — there  is  no  knowing. 
It  wants  a  quarter  to  eight ;  that  used  to  be  his  time  ;  I  do  not 
say  he  will  come  to-night,  and  yet  who  knows?" 

She  ceased.  Nathalie  no  longer  heeded  her.  She  had 
turned  suddenly,  arrested  in  a  listening  attitude  towards  the 
entrance  of  the  drawing-room  :' a  well-known  step  was  on  the 
stairs  ;  the  door  opened  ;  he  entered. 

The  pause  of  sudden  surprise  as  he  saw  her  told  her  but 
too  plainly  that  he  was  not  privy  to  his  aunt's  scheme. 

"  I  shall  never  forgive  you,  never,"  cried  Nathalie,  turning 
towards  Aunt  Radegonde.  He  looked  at  her  pale  indignant 
face  as  she  spoke  and  understood  it  all. 

"You  have  deceived  me,"  continued  the  young  girl,  with 
rising  anger.  "I  trusted  you  and  you  brought  me— here." 
She  uttered  the  last  word  with  an  indignant  scorn  that  amazed 
and  terrified  the  Canoness,  little  prepared  for  so  abrupt  a 
change  of  mood. 

"  Petite,"  she  deprecatingly  said,  "  I  meant  well ;  how  did 
I  know  there  had  been  an  explanation  ?  Oh  !  do  not  go,"  she 
added,  seizing  the  young  girl's  hand,  and  seeking  still  more  to 
detain  her  by  her  appealing  look. 

"  Pray  let  me  go,"  replied  Nathalie,  in  the  coldest  tones,  but 
speaking  with  subdued  irritation. 

"  No,"  resolutely  persisted  the  Canoness,  "  you  must  not 
go  ;  shall  she,  Armand  ?" 

She  turned  to  her  nephew,  as  if  imploring  for  aid. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville,  who  had  slowly  come  forward,  now 
looked  up  and  said  deliberately : — 

"  And  why  should  not  Mademoiselle  Montolieu  be  perfectly 
free  to  stay  or  depart  at  her  pleasure  ?" 

His  aunt  looked  confounded. 

"  Why,  above  all."  he  resumed,  "  sliould  you  appeal  to  me, 
aunt,  when  you  know  it  is  only  because  I  enter  this  room  she 
wishes  to  leave  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  Armand  !"  reproachfully  replied  his  aunt,  "  could  you 
find  nothing  but  that  to  say?" 

He  did  not  answer,  but  the  contraction  of  his  brow,  the 
rigid  compression  of  his  pale  firm  lips,  the  resolute  meaning 
of  his  fixed  glance,  told  not  of  humble  or  beseeching  mood. 

"And  so  you  will  go?"  sorrowfully  said  Aunt  Radegonde, 
dd  Iressin/i-  Nathalie,  whose  hand  she  had  relinquished. 

21 


182  NATHALIE. 

"  Be  satisfied,  aunt,"  observed  her  nephew,  with  some  slight 
decree  of  bitterness,  '•  I  shall  soon  leave  Sainville." 

Nathalie  suddenly  stopped  short  in  the  act  of  putting  on 
her  shawl,  and  raised  her  flushed  face. 

"  If  you  mean  to  say,  sir,"  she  exclaimed,  "  that  your  ab- 
sence will  induce  me  ever  to  enter  this  house  again — you  are 
mistaken." 

"There!"  cried  the  Canoness,  in  a  tone  of  despair,  "you 
have  done  it,  Armand;  matters  were  not  bad  enough;  you 
have  done  it,  when  you  might  so  easily  have  asked  her  to  for- 
got the  past." 

"  I  have  asked  her,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville.  in  a  tone 
which  implied,  "  I  will  not  ask  again." 

'•  Come,  Petite,  he  asks  you  to  forget,"  eagerly  said  the 
Canoness,  with  a  slight  perversion  of  the  truth ;  "  do  answer 
something." 

"  I  have  answered,"  coldly  replied  Nathalie,  and  her  look 
said:  "Nothing  shall  make  me  unsay  that  answer." 

The  Canoness  indignantly  sank  down  in  her  arm-chair, 
whilst  she  glanced  from  her  nephew  to  Nathalie,  as  they  stood 
facing  one  another,  but  with  averted  glances,  on  the  hearth  be- 
fore her. 

"  Oh  !  you  are  well  matched,"  she  angrily  exclaimed,  "for 
you  are  both  as  proud  and  relentless  as  Lucifer  himself!" 

One  impulse  made  Monsieur  de  Sainville  and  the  young 
girl  look  up  as  the  Canoness  spoke  thus.  For  the  first  time 
their  eyes  met ;  a  change  came  over  his  features,  and  she 
slightly  turned  pale. 

'•  You,  Armand,"  continued  the  Canoness,  "  would  break 
any  woman's  heart,  and  your  own  along  with  it — that  is,  if  you 
had  a  heart  to  break — sooner  than  give  in;  and  you,  Maderaoi- 
sellf  Nathalie,  you  would  cry  your  eyes  out,  and  die  with 
griet,  sooner  than  say :  '  I  am  sorry.'  " 

"  Aunt,"  coldly  said  her  nephew,  "  the  time  has  long  gone 
by  when  men's  hearts  broke,  and  ladies  dimmed  their  eyes 
with  weeping.  If  women  do  suflFer  from  these  things,  they 
take  care  to  lose  none  of  their  beauty.  Sorrow  falls  very 
lightly  on  them." 

Nathalie  paused  in  the  act  of  turning  away  to  look  at  him 
with  a  somewhat  haughty  smile.  She  understood  the  implied 
reproach,  and  triumphed  in  it. 

"  And  why  not?"  she  asked,  "why  should  not  sorrow  fall 
lightly  on  them?" 


NATHALIE.  483 

"  Nay,"  lie  replied,  with  a  smile  as  cold  as  hers  was  haughty 
"  I  do  not  complain  ;  it  also  renders  self-reproach  more  light." 

"  0/i,  111071  Dieu  !"  mournfully  exclaimed  the  Canoness,  "  it 
is  getting  worse  and  worse!" 

"Aunt,"  quietly  replied  the  nephew,  "you  mistake  this 
case ;  the  question  is  simply  that,  for  reasons  which  then 
seemed  to  me  very  powerful,  I  thought  it  would  be  wise,  for 
Mademoiselle  Montolieu's  sake,  especially,  to  break  our  mutual 
engagement.  I  say  for  her  sake  especially,  because  the 
thought  of  her  happiness  was  my  most  powerful  motive." 

"  An  instance  of  forethought  I  shall  never  forget,"  emphati- 
cally said  Nathalie. 

'•  So  you  have  been  kind  enough  to  declare,"  replied  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville.  "  But  to  resume.  I  have  thought  since 
then  that  I  might  have  been  mistaken  ;  I  have  frankly  said  so 
to  Mademoiselle  Montolieu;  she  has  declined  taking  this  view 
of  the  subject ;  it  was  her  right ;  I  do  not  complain.  This, 
aunt,  is  the  case ;  this,  and  no  more." 

"  Oh,  this  is  the  case,  is  it  V  mournfully  said  Aunt  Rade- 
gonde,  in  whom  this  freezing  explanation  desti-oyed  every 
hope. 

"  I  believe,"  replied  her  nephew,  glancing  towards  Natha- 
lie, "  I  have  stated  the  case  fairly." 

"  Very  fairly,"  she  composedly  replied. 

The  Canoness  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  with  inexpres 
sible  sorrow. 

"  O/i,  mon  Dieu .'"  she  said  very  sadly.  ''  it  has  come  to 
this !  You  two  who  were  to  pass  through  life  as  one,  you  now 
speak  so  coldly  !  not  even  as  enemies,  but  as  distant  strangers. 
And  yet  you  wgre  once  fond  of  one  another.  I  have  seen  you, 
Armand,  restless  until  she  came.  I  have  seen  you.  Petite,  un- 
happy because  you  thought  you  had  vexed  him.  And  now, 
mon  Dieu  !  now  !"  Sbe  bowed  her  head,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  looked  disturbed,  and  be- 
gan walking  up  and  down  the  room ;  Nathalie  repeatedly 
changed  color,  and  stood  for  a  while  irresolute ;  she  was  ab- 
ruptly turning  away  from  Aunt  Radegonde's  chair,  when  Mon- 
•  sieur  do  Sainville  suddenly  stopped  in  his  promenade,  and 
.stood  still  on  the  hearth  before  her.  For  a  few  seconds  they 
eyed  each  other  in  mutual  silence. 

"  Will  you,  or  will  you  not  ?"  he  at  length  briefly  asked. 

He  spoke  with  no  lover's  look,  and  in  no  lover's  tone; 
but  with  that  strange  mixture  of  anger  and  tenderness  to 


484  NATHALIE. 

which    the  deepest  feelings  are  often  stirred  in   the  human 
heart. 

Had  he  put  the  same  question  in  a  gentle  or  guarded 
speech,  denial  would  instantly  have  risen  to  Nathalie's  lips ; 
but  now  she  could  not  reply ;  she  could  only  tremble  and  turn 
pale.  There  was  more  than  entreaty  in  his  vehement  tone 
and  fixed  look ;  these  told  of  a  love  deep  and  unconquered 
still ;  a  love  against  which  pride  and  will  had  long  struggled^ 
and  alike  struggled  in  vain. 

"  Yes,  she  will,  she  will,"  eagerly  cried  the  Canoness,  bend- 
ing forward  ;  "  she  will,  Armand." 

Nathalie  looked  up  ;  a  reply  was  on  her  lips ;  the  Canoness 
hastened  to  check  it  by  reiterating : 

"  Indeed  she  will,  Armand." 

"Aunt,  he  replied,  you  mean  well ;  but  you  do  not  under- 
stand either  Nathalie  or  me.  She  is  not  one  to  be  cheated 
out  of  consent ;  nor  am  I  one,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "  to  be 
satisfied  with  consent  thus  obtained.  I  have  asked  a  plain 
question  ;  she  will  give  a  plain  reply." 

"  As  plain  as  you  wish,"  began  Nathalie. 

'•  No,  Petite,  no."  interrupted  the  Canoness,  alarmed  at 
the  pale  severity  which  the  young  girl's  features  sudd-cnly  as- 
sumed ;  "  no.  do  not." 

"  Nay,  let  her,"  observed  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  with  some 
bitterness,  "  I  know  her ;  she  is  a  true  woman,  resentful  and 
unforgiving." 

''  Resentment  ?"  replied  Nathalie,  in  her  coldest  tones.  "  I 
have  no  resentment.  And  as  for  forgiveness,  I  have  not,  thank 
heaven,  endured  such  sorrow  as  to  render  it  difiicult." 

"  He  raised  his  look  slowly  until  it  met  hers. 

"  I  understand  you  and  your  meaning,"  he  answered  ;  "  but 
do  not  think  to  deceive  me.  I  seek  not  to  deceive  you.  I  say 
frankly,  I  have  sufi'ered.  You  may  look  at  me  if  you  like,  and 
ask  yourself  why  a  few  months  have  left  those  traces  on  my 
brow  ?  Refuse  again  if  you  wish,  but  stoop  not  to  feign  an 
indiff'erence  you  do  not  feel." 

Nathalie  had  heard  him  with  resolutely-averted  look,  as  it 
resolved  not  to  heed  whatever  he  might  say.  When  he  bade, 
her  look  at  him,  she  involuntarily  raised  her  glance.  He  looked 
pale  and  care-worn.  For  a  moment  she  eyed  him  with  calm 
composure,  but  suddenly  she  trembled,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears  ;  she  shook  them  away  almost  immediately,  as  if 
ashamed  and  indignant  at  the  weakness. 


NATHALIE.  485 

•'  I  will  not  yield,"'  she  passionately  cried  ,  '•  no,  I  -will  not 
^brget  01"  forgive  that  which  I  shall  remember  and  resent  whilst 
piemory  and  life  are  left  me.  You  are  right  in  one  thing  at 
least :  no,  I  am  not  indifferent ;  no,  I  am  not  cold  ;  I  am,  as 
you  say,  a  resentful,  unforgiving  woman,  who  has  been  wronged, 
and  who  feels  it  deeply.  You  harshly  rejected  me.  I  could 
not  go  and  say,  '  love  me  still.'  I  was  at  your  mercy,  &nd  you 
made  me  feel  it.  I  have  endured  the  slight  which  only  a  wo- 
man can  receive ;  I  will  have  a  woman's  pride,  yes,  suffer  as  I 
may,  and  come  what  will." 

She  did  not  give  herself  time  to  reflect,  thint,  or  regret, 
but  abruptly  turned  away,  and  left  the  room  as  she  spoke. 

'•  Stay,  Petite,  stay,"  cried  the  Canoness,  rising  eagerly. 

But  neither  did  Nathalie  heed  her,  nor  would  -her  nephew 
allow  her  to  follow.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  Aunt  Ra- 
degonde,  and  his  grasp  was  firm  as  steel.  He  did  not  release 
her  until  the  door  below  closed  on  Nathalie,  then  indeed  he  let 
her  go.  and  began  pacing  the  room  up  and  down,  precisely  as 
usual. 

"  Then  it  is  all  over,"  despairingly  thought  the  Canoness. 
"  Heaven  help  me  !"  she  inwardly  added  ;  "  of  what  was  only 
separation,  I  have  made  a  desperate  quarrel.  Heaven  help  me  !" 

After  walking  up  and  down  the  room  for  about  an  hour. 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  stopped  short,  and  turned  towards  hi? 
aunt,  with  face  so  dark,  and  brow  so  severe,  that  the  little  Ca- 
noness trembled  visibly.  The  sight  of  her  terror  recalled  him 
to  himself,  for  though  he  felt  angry,  he  knew  not  how  much  he 
showed  it,  and  was  far  from  wishing  to  vent  his  anger  upon 
this  harmless,  well-meaning  creature. 

"  Aunt,"  said  he,  more  gently  than  he  had  intended,  '•  be 
not  alarmed,  I  am  not  going  to  reproach.  You  did  very  wrong, 
but  you  meant  well.  It  is  scarcely  your  fault  if  I  once  more 
made  a  fool  of  myself.  The  mere  act  of  loving  implies  folly 
and  weakness,  yet  the  greatest  folly  was  not  that  which  took 
place  to-night :  it  was  that  which  first  led  me  to  feel  affection 
for  a  vain  and  heartless  girl." 

"  Oh,  Armand  !"  interrupted  the  Canoness,  unable  to  bear 
this. 

"  I  know  you  love  her,  yet  she  is  what  I  say.  She  thinks 
herself  proud,  when  she  is  far  more  resentful  than  proud,  and 
more  vain  than  either.  Had  she  ceased  to  love  me,  I  might 
admire  her ;  but  she  has  not ;  she  loves  me  still  to  this  very 
moment ;  and  she  has  not  the  courage,  the  honesty,  to  be  truo 


(86  NATUALIE. 

to  lier  love.  She  tried,  in  vain,  to  brave  or  most  my  louk.  I 
believe  she  hesitated  for  a  few  moments,  but  the  womanly 
weakness  was  promptly  subdued  ;  she  looked  at  me  unsteadily 
even  then,  turned  away,  and  was  gone.  Poor  child  !  she  is  ap« 
plauding  herself  now.  She  does  not  know  that  as  the  door 
closed  upon  her,  her  triumph  ceased,  for  at  that  moment  my 
heart  banished  and  shut  her  out  for  ever." 

"  The  Canoness  clasped  her  hands  and  wept.  She  had 
heard  that  inexorable  voice  once  before.  She  knew  again  the 
very  tones  in  which  the  irrevocable  sentence  of  Lucile  had  been 
uttered. 

"  I  mention  this,"  resumed  her  nephew,  after  a  brief  pause, 
'•  because  it  is  my  express  wish  that  such  an  attempt  as  you 
made  this  evening  shall  never  be  made  again.  Little  regard 
as  I  now  feel  for  her,  I  should  be  reluctant  to  inflict  on  any 
woman  a  severe,  though  merited,  mortification.  I  do  not  wish 
to  see.  meet,  or  hear  her.  I  would  rather  that  her  name  should 
not  be  mentioned  to  me.  It  would  not  grieve  me,  but  it  would 
not  be  agreeable.  I  wish  to  forget  her  like  one  that  has  never 
existed.  She  has  lost  my  esteem,  and  I  do  not  feel  very  proud 
of  ever  having  loved  her.  If  it  had  been  only  a  passing  caprice, 
— a  fancy  for  a  pretty  face,  I  could  forgive  myself  the  weak- 
ness ;  but  it  was  a  deeper  feeling.  She  has  wounded  me  as 
none  save  herself  could  wound,  for  to  none  have  I  yielded  the 
same  power.  But  I  have  no  right  to  complain.  I  knew  before- 
hand that  the  man  who  lays  bare  his  heart  to  a  woman  must 
expect  to  see  it  pierced,  and  handled  as  the  bird  or  insect  given 
up  to  a  cruel  child.  I  had  faith  in  her,  thought  her  better  and 
more  generous  'than  others.  I  have  paid  the  penalty  of  my 
trust.  Aunt,  if  those  tears  are  for  me,  do  not  shed  them.  I 
need  them  not ;  I  have  been  ill,  I  am  well  again.  If  they  arc 
for  her,  you  may  spare  them.  Lucile  was  too  weak  to  suifer ; 
she  is  too  vain." 

He  bade  her  good  night,  and  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Difference  of  character  is  said  to  conduce  to  aflectioa 
Persons  of  similar  disposition  on  the  contrary  resemble  parallel 


NATHALIE.  487 

lines  ;  they  placidly  take  tho  journey  of  life  at  the  same  time, 
but  not  together  ;  they  follow  the  same  track  and  never  meet. 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  and  Nathalie  had  been  mutually  attracted 
by  the  great  difference  in  their  natures.  Her  frankness  had 
delighted  him  ;  she  had  been  irresistibly  drawn  towards  him 
by  what  she  conceived  to  be  the  mystery — a  mystery  which 
existed  chieily  in  her  imagination — of  his  character.  But, 
different  as  they  were,  they  had  many  points  of  contact.  Both 
were  proud,  exacting,  and  somewhat  jealous.  Both  were  inder 
pendent  in  thought,  speech  and  action,  caring  little  for  this 
world's  opinion,  and  seeking  not  to  win  its  esteem.  Both. 
above  all,  whatever  they  wished,  felt,  or  did,  wished,  felt,  and 
did  it  entirely ;  the  one  with  all  the  activity  of  his  brain,  and 
the  force  of  his  will ;  the  other  with  all  the  impulsiveness  of 
her  temper  and  the  warmth  of  her  heart. 

But  here  ceased  the  natural  similarity,  and  began  that  ficti« 
tious  resemblance  which  ever  takes  place  between  those  whom 
one  deep  feeling  unites,  and  whom  one  roof  shelters.  This 
similarity  had  extended  far  enough  to  do  mischief,  and  unfor- 
tunately not  far  enough  to  do  good.  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
had  indulged  in  some  of  Nathalie's  perversity  of  temper ;  the 
shade  of  hh  skepticism  and  coldness  had  fallen  on  her  genial 
warmth.  Nathalie  received  and  accepted  more  than  her  share 
in  this  unhappy  exchange.  She  had  often  admired  her  lover's 
cold  firmness  ;  she  forgot  that  it  was  tempered  by  judgment 
and  a  deep  sense  of  duty.  She  did  not  acknowledge  to  herself 
that  she  wished  to  imitate  him,  and  yet  it  was  so  ;  and  when 
she  rejected  him  so  inexorably,  there  was  in  her  heart  the  secret 
thought  of  compelling  him  to  admire  and  esteem  her  whom  h* 
had  «  ver  held  and  treated  like  a  child.  When  she  learned  fi-om 
the  Canoness — who  soon  called  on  her,  and  whom  she  ques- 
tioned closely — how  different  a  result  her  "  firmness"  had 
obtained ;  how  she  had  sunk  instead  of  rising  in  her  lover's 
opinion ;  how  he  detected  the  weakness  of  a  wilful  and  pas- 
sionate temper  in  what  she  had  considered  energy  and  strength 
of  character,  she  remained  thunderstruck.  For  it  was  too  true 
that  she  had  but  one  thought — whether  in  good  or  in  evil — to 
be  something  to  him  still. 

This,  however,  had  not  been  her  only  motive  for  acting  as 
she  had  acted.  She  had  been  stung  to  the  quick  by  the  cold 
haughtiness  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville's  submission,  or  rather 
return  to  her.  She  was  necessary  to  his  happiness,  but  could 
he  have  done  without  her,  he  evidently  would.     She  remem 


183  NATHALIE. 

bered  the  words  of  his  letter,  "  I  once  wrote  to  you  that  we 
had  loved  unwisely ;  I  do  not  unsay  the  words."     "  Be  it  so,' 
she  thought,  "yes,  even  though  the  wound  should  sink  as  deep 
in  nie,  as  I  now  see  it  will  in  him." 

The  first  taste  of  vengeance  is  sweet,  but  the  dregs  are 
unutterably  bitter ;  and,  daughter  of  the  south  as  she  way, 
Nathalie  found  it  so. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  fell  ill.  Let  not  the  sentimental 
reader  imagine  that  his  love-sorrows  had  any  thing  to  do  with 
his  illness.  It  was  a  dangerous  fever  then  prevalent  in  the 
district ;  it  seized  him  like  many  others,  and  like  many  others 
there  came  for  him  a  day  when  the  doctor  shook  his  head  and 
said : 

"  There  is  no  hope." 

"  Mademoiselle  Nathalie,"  said  the  little  Chevalier  to  her 
one  evening,  "  I  suppose  you  know  Monsieur  de  Sainville  has 
got  the  fever,  and  lies  in  a  hopeless  state." 

She  had  not  so  much  as  heard  of  his  illness.  The  class 
was  over:  she  was  standing  near  the  window  working  by  the 
fading  light  of  dusk.  She  did  not  faint  or  scream,  she  scarcely 
turned  pale.  She  merely  laid  down  her  work,  ran  up  to 
Mademoiselle  Dantin's  room,  opened  the  drawer  in  which  she 
knew  that  the  key  of  the  garden  door  was  kept,  took  it,  ran 
down  to  the  garden,  opened  the  door,  and  entered  the  grounds 
of  Sainville.  She  had  rapidly  calculated  that  to  go  in  openly 
would  breed  the  inevitable  delay  of  servants  and  messages  ; 
and  what  she  wanted  was  to  be  in  at  once.  Of  Mademoiselle 
Dantin's  probable  wrath  she  did  not  so  much  as  think.  She 
entered  the  chateau  unseen  ;  ran  up  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
appeared  before  the  Canoness  as  pale  and  sudden  as  an  appa- 
rition. 

"  You,  Petite  !"  cried  Aunt  Radegonde,  clasping  her  hands. 

"  Marraine,"  quickly  said  Natahlie,  going  up  to  her,  "  is  it 
true  ?  is  there  no  hope  ?" 

"  Little  hope.  Petite,  very  little,"  sadly  replied  the  Canoness, 

"  Marraine,"  said  Nathalie,  turning  very  pale  but  speaking 
(irmly,  "  I  must  see  him ;  but  first  tell  me  this,  does  he  know 
ho  is  so  ill?" 

"  Oh  yes,  he  asked  the  doctor,  who,  knowing  he  would  not 
like  to  be  deceived,  told  him  at  once." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?" 

"  He  merely  said  '  indeed  !'  and  looked  thoughtful." 

*'  He  did  not  ask  to  see  me  ?  he  did  not  utter  ray  name  ? 


NATHALIE.  483 

The  Caiioness  shook  her  head. 

'•  Marraine,"  said  Nathalie,  whilst  tears  ilowsj  down  her 
cheeks,  "I  must  see  him:  he  is  not  so  ill — the  doctor  is  mis- 
taken, but  yet  I  must  see  him.     Tell  him  so." 

"  Petite,  I  dare  not." 

•'  Marraine,  you  must.  Tell  him  it  is  not  she  who  was  once 
to  have  been  his  bride,  his  wife,  that  now  asks  this  boon,  but 
the  poor  girl  whom  he  sheltered  under  his  roof,  whom  he  called 
his  ward,  and  treated  like  his  child.  Tell  him  that,  and  he  will 
not  refuse." 

"  Poor  little  thing,"  compassionately  replied  the  Canoness, 
"Do  you  imagine  that  will  touch  him  much?" 

"  Try,  Marraine,  try  ;  I  beseech  you,  try.  Believe  me,  he 
cannot  refuse." 

"  "Well.  Petite,  wait  here  and  I  shall  see." 

"  Marraine,"  said  Nathalie,  following  her  to  the  door.  "  l**^ 
me  go  up  with  you." 

"  No,  no,  you  must  not,"  cried  the  Canoness,  much  alarme<? 

"  Marraine,  let  me,  pray  let  me." 

"  I  tell  you  no  ;  he  would  be  very  angry." 

"He  need  not  know  it.  Let  me  only  stand  outside  tho 
door,  and  listen,  whilst  you  speak  to  him.  If  he  consents  I  cao 
go  in  ;  if  not — why  then  I  shall  retire  silently." 

The  Canoness  still  refused  ;  but  Nathalie  besought  her  so 
ardently,  and  promised  so  solemnly  not  to  attempt  entering  the 
room  unless  Monsieur  de  Sainville  agreed  to  see  her,  that  Aunt 
Radegonde  at  length  yielded.  They  went  up  to  the  little  turret 
which  Monsieur  de  Sainville  occupied.  The  Canoness  entered 
the  room,  and  left  the  door  ajar,  so  that  a  ray  of  light  trom  the 
dim  night  l?mp  within  glided  to  the  dark  corridor,  where 
Nathalie  stooa  mute  and  pale  in  waiting.  After  ashina:  her 
nephew  how  he  felt.  Aunt  Radegonde  mentioned  the  name  of 
Nathalie,  and  said : 

'•  She  has  been  inquiring  after  you,  Armand  ;  she  is  very 
anxious  about  you." 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  Armand,"  resumed  his  aunt,  in  a  tremulous  tone,  "  why 
should  you  not  see  the  poor  child  ?" 

"  Aunt,  allow  me  to  ask  you  why  I  should  see  her?" 

"  To  forgive  her,  Armand." 

"  I  assure  you  that  I  have  long  ago  forgiven  her.  It  is  not 
her  fault  if  she  is  heartless,  any  more  than  it  was  the  fault  of 
Lucile  to  be  weak.     I  wish   Mademoiselle  Montolieu  all  tho 

21* 


19(1  NATHALIE. 

happiness  which  can  fall  to  the  lot  of  a  human  being  ;  but  I  ob 
ject  to  seeing  her  ;  she  reminds  me  of  a  period  of  my  life  ta 
■which  I  look  back  with  annoyance  and  regret ;  of  which  I  feel 
indeed  that  I  have  no  reason  to  be  proud." 

'•  But  if  she  were  in  the  house,  Armand  ?" 

"  Aunt,  if  she  were  at  the  door  of  this  room  I  would  not  seo 
her." 

Ho  spoke  impatiently,  and,  as  if  tired  of  the  subject,  not  aa 
if  suspecting  the  presence  of  Nathalie.  His  aunt  did  not  ven- 
ture to  add  another  word. 

After  a  while  she  rose,  and  went  to  the  door. 

There  was  no  need  to  remind  the  young  girl  of  her  promise 
not  to  enter.  Every  word  uttered  by  Monsieur  de  Sainville 
had  reached  her  ear,  as  she  stood  there,  listening  with  bowed 
head  and  clasped  hands,  like  the  culprit  on  whom  the  severe 
Judge  passes  the  irrevocable  sentence.  When  Aunt  Rade- 
gonde's  sad  face  appeared  at  the  door,  Nathalie  silently  signed 
her  to  close  it,  then  noiselessly  glided  down  the  narrow  stair- 
case. She  left  the  chateau  without  heeding  the  wondering 
glances  of  servants  who  had  not  seen  her  enter;  she  went  down 
one  of  the  garden-walks,  she  took  the  path  leading  to  the  door ; 
it  stood,  as  she  had  left  it,  half-open,  and  only  too  ready  to  let 
her  depart,  and  close  on  her  for  ever.  There  she  paused.  She 
looked  back,  her  eyes  blinded  by  tears,  on  the  spot  of  which  she 
was  once  to  have  been  mistress,  but  from  which  she  was  now  so 
sternly  banished.  Slie  could  see  the  faint  light  burning  in  the 
turret-chamber  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  and  she  looked  and 
lingered  still  Oh,  for  the  spell  that  could  arrest  her  steps 
there  ;  or,  better  still,  that  could  lead  her  back  to  all  she  had 
left  and  lost — Faith,  Hope,  and  Love  !  Like  the  first  woman, 
she  bade  adieu  to  what  had  once  been  the  Eden  of  her  life. 
But  Eve,  at  least,  was  not  rejected  by  him  who  had  sinned  like 
her,  and  Nathalie  felt  in  her  heart  that  she  had  not  sinned 
alone.  He  who  had  shared  her  fall  shared  her  exile,  and  when 
she  went  forth  banished,  she  left  him  not  behind  her. 

She  at  length  turned  away,  locked  the  door,  and  replaced 
the  key  in  the  spot  where  she  had  found  it.  She  had  been 
about  half-an-hour  away.  No  one  had  noticed  her  absence. 
and  it  was  never  known. 

In  spite  of  the  doctor's  predictions.  Monsieur  do  Sainville 
recovered. 

In  persisting  to  remain  near  his  abode,  Nathalie  had  only 
thought  of  punishing  him  ;  with  her  usual  want  of  reflection 


NATHALIE.  491 

slio  did  not  consider  that  she  would  also  punish  herself.  She 
soon  learned  that  she  had  chosen  a  bitter  and  ever-renewing 
torment.  The  passion  Charles  Marceau  had  formerly  felt  for 
her  had  prevented  any  one  from  suspecting  her  engagement 
■with  Monsieur  de  Sainville.  which,  according  to  her  wish,  had 
been  kept  strictly  secret.  No  one,  therefore,  felt  any  reserve 
in  mentioning  his  name  to  her.  She  heard  it  daily ;  seldom 
with  affection  or  praise.  His  severity,  harshness,  and  morose 
temper,  were  ever  commented  upon,  and  bitterly  censured,  in 
her  presence  and  hearing.  Mademoiselle  Dantin  spoke  of  him 
with  undisguised  acrimony  ;  the  pupils,  as  of  a  severe,  for- 
bidding man ;  the  gentle  Chevalier  himself  had  his  word  of 
censure,  and  pitied  that  charming  lady,  Madame  la  Clianonesse 
de  Sainville,  for  having  so  sour-looking  a  nephew.  And  whilst 
strangers  spoke  thus  freely  of  him  who  had  once  been  the  hope, 
centre,  and  end  of  her  existence,  Nathalie  looked  calm,  and 
betrayed  not  the  fever  which  his  name  ever  awoke  in  her 
heart. 

They  met  sometimes,  but  generally  at  a  distance.  Once, 
however,  they  were  near  enough  for  their  looks  to  meet. 
Monsieur  de  Sainville  gave  her  a  cold  glance,  and  rode  on. 
Her  look  had  been  brief,  but  long  enough  to  let  her  see  that  he 
was  greatly  changed  :  it  was  not,  however,  that  he  looked  sad 
or  unwell ;  by  no  means ;  but  he  looked  gloomy,  misanthropic, 
and  stern.  And  such,  indeed,  he  had  become,  according  to 
Aunt  Radegonde.  He  had  always  been  a  severe  master,  but 
he  was  now  tyrannic ;  a  strict  landlord,  but  now,  alas  !  he  was 
pitiless.  No  fault  or  remission,  however  slight  either  might 
be  found  mercy  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  afraid  of  him,"  the  Canoness  once  acknowledged  to 
the  young  girl,  whom  she  occasionally  visited.  "  Yes,  I,  his 
aunt,  am  actually  afraid  of  him.  Petite  ;  he  has  grown  so  severe 
and  sarcastic,  even  with  me,  and  even  about  my  poor  knitting ! 
Every  word  he  utters  is  bitter  and  relentless." 

Nathalie  heard  her  with  an  aching  heart.  No  severer 
punishment  could  have  fallen  upon  her.  It  had  once  been  hei 
ambition  to  make  her  lover  a  better  man.  She  now  found 
that,  powerless  as  she  had  been  for  good,  she  was  not  so  for 
evil.  Oh  !  bitter,  indeed,  is  the  thought  of  inflicting  evil, — 
moral  evil. — on  the  being  we  love  !  "  And  I  have  done  this  !" 
she  thought,  "  I  have  done  this  !  He  once  asked  me  to  con- 
jure the  evil  spirit  of  Will  and  Pride,  and  I  have  brought  them 
down  in  legions  around  him,  with  Harshness,  Despotism,  and 


492  NATHALIE. 

Tyranny,  and  their  spirits,  too,  in  endless  train."  She  wepl 
bitterly.  Nor  was  she  mistaken.  She  had,  indeed,  done  much 
harm.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  pitiless  to  others,  because 
he  could  not  forgive  himself  the  mistake  and  weakness,  for 
such  he  now  deemed  them,  which  had  ever  placed  him  in  her 
power.  And  this  also  Nathalie  knew.  She  had  heard  him 
say  so ;  she  could  not  forget  the  words, — they  were  for  ever 
ringing  in  her  ears,  the  fiat  of  her  new  destiny.  ^  "  I  object  to 
seeing  her ;  she  reminds  me  of  a  period  of  my  life  to  which  I 
look  back  with  annoyance  and  regret,  of  which  I  feel,  indeed, 
that  I  have  no  reason  to  be  proud."  It  had  come  to  this 
between  them !  Her  health,  which  had  resisted  his  absence, 
sank  under  the  torment  of  his  return.  Once  she  resolved  to 
leave  the  school,  and  seek  some  distant  home,  but  her  heart 
failed  her  when  the  moment  came.  It  was  misery  to  stay,  and 
deeper  misery  to  go.  But  no  one,  not  even  Aunt  Radegonde, 
ever  knew  what  she  sufi"ered.  Pride  supported  her  externally, 
but  pride,  alas  !  had  lost  its  once  boasted  power  over  her  heart 
and  its  sorrowing  recollections. 

One  Sunday  afternoon,  in  the  early  days  of  spring,  she  sat 
with  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  the  Chevalier,  and  some  other 
persons,  in  the  dull  parlor  described  in  the  first  pages  of  this 
story.  The  conversation  had  fallen  on  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 
Never  had  he  been  more  unmercifully  treated.  Often  had 
Nathalie  accused  those  who  spoke  thus  of  exaggeration,  but 
she  could  not  do  so  now,  for  they  gave  facts.  The  little 
Chevalier  was  more  than  usually  indignant. 

"  H(  is  a  misanthrope,"  he  sententiously  said  ;  "  he  has  an 
unnatural  horror  of  the  fair  sex.  Mademoiselle  Beaumont  told 
me  that  she  met  him  a  few  days  back,  and  asked  him  to  direct 
her,  having  then  lost  her  way,  but  he  repHed  that  he  knew 
nothing  about  the  place  she  was  going  to  ;  and  he  said  so  without 
so  much  as  looking  at  her,  or  behaving  with  common  civility." 

Mademoiselle  Dantin  smiled  scornfully.  She  knew  much 
worse  than  that.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was  a  dreadful  miser, 
a  hard,  stingy  man.  There  was  a  poor  widow,  whose  lease  of 
land  he  had  obstinately  refused  to  renew,  because  a  rich  farmer 
had  offered  him  a  higher  rental. 

"  Well,  do  you  know,"  quietly  said  a  sedate  bourgeois  of 
Sainville,  "  I  think  that  cannot  be  true.  At  least  I  know  a 
story  that  contradicts  it  entirely.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was 
addressed  the  other  day  in  a  very  rude  manner,  it  must  be 
confessed,  by  a  peasant  lad.     He  told  him  to  hold  his  peace ; 


NATHALIE.  492 

the  lad  laughed.  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  without  more  ado,, 
struck  him  with  his  whip.  The  mother  raised  a  great  outcry ; 
be  smiled  very  scornfully,  threw  her  a  handful  of  silver,  and 
rode  on." 

"  This  cannot  be  true,"  indignantly  said  Nathalie ;  '•  it 
cannot." 

"  I  saw  it,"  quietly  said  the  bourgeois. 

"There!"  triumphantly  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  Dantin;' 
"  did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  tyrant  1     I  hate  Monsieur  do 
Sainville,  and  so  does  every  one." 

"  No  one  ever  comes  to  the  chateau,"  observed  the  Cheva- 
lier :  "  no  ladies  are  ever  admitted  there,  it  seoms.  I  do  pity 
that  charming  Canoness,  and  you,  Mademoiselle  Montolieii." 

But  Nathalie  was  gone.  She  was  in  her  room  pacing  it 
with  hasty  and  agitated  steps,  weeping  wildly  with  impassioned 
and  distracted  grief  The  cup  her  own  hand  had  poured  out 
for  herself,  was  full,  and  conscience  sternly  said  :  "  You  shall 
drink  it."  Here  was  her  power  over  Armand  de  Sainville — 
here  her  dearly  prized  and  more  dearly  earned  vengeance.  He, 
the  proud  gentleman,  so  jealous  of  his  delicacy  and  honor  ;  he 
had  struck  a  child,  and  added  insult  to  injury.  She  had  not 
the  consolation  of  knowing  that  the  whole  story  was  a  gross 
exaggeration  ;  that  the  blow  was  an  accident,  and  the  handful 
of  money  a  single  silver  coin  ;  she  believed  it,  for  evening  after 
evening  she  had  heard  such  tales,  and  most  of  them,  as  she 
knew  too  well,  were  no  exaggerations,  but  bitter  truths.  "  God 
help  me  i"  she  now  exclaimed  inwardly.  "  God  help  me  !  J 
have  been  a  weak  and  faithless  woman ;  I  knew  not  that  te 
love  was  a  holy  trust  and  a  religious  faith.  I  gave  myself  up 
to  all  the  follies  of  passion,  but  the  woman's  true  tendemesa 
was  not  in  my  heart.  If  I  wished  for  a  lover's  idolatry,  why 
not  have  Charles  Marceau  ?  With  a  few  kind  words  I  could 
have  kept  him  as  a  slave  at  my  feet.  But  if  I  wished  for  se- 
rious, for  higher  affection,  oh !  why  be  not  content  with  that 
which  I  won  ?  Why  weary  it  out  with  caprices  ?  Why  reject 
it  when  it  returned  to  me,  spite  of  all  my  follies  ?  Well  may 
he  call  and  think  me  heartless  !  Well  may  he  feel  ashamed  of 
having  ever  loved  me  !  Well  may  he  shut  himself  up  and  lead 
a  gloomy  and  solitary  life,  when  th*  being  to  whom  he  opened 
his  heart,  instead  of  gentle  forgiveness,  only  thought  of  how 
ehe  might  inflict  a  deeper  wound  !" 

She  sat  down  near  her  open  window,  oppressed  with  carj 
and  grief     She  thought  of  Kose,  who  had  predicted  this  sor- 


i94  NATHALIE 

row,  and  warned  her  against  the  poisoned  jug  of  vengeance 
'  Oh  !  that  she  were  here  to  give  her  good  counsel  now."  She 
leaned  her  hrow  upon  her  hand  ;  heavy  with  weeping,  her  eyes 
involuntarily  closed.  Was  what  followed  a  mere  deam ;  tho 
continuation  of  some  previous  thought  or  real  corumunioii. 
with  the  dead  ?  She  thought  that  she  saw  herself  in  the  littlo 
churchyard  of  Sainville,  standing  near  her  sister's  tomb,  when 
Hose  suddenly  appeared  before  her,  sitting  calmly  at  the  head 
of  her  own  grave,  and  looking  at  her  with  gentle  seriousness. 
But  as  is  usual  in  dreams,  Nathalie  felt  neither  alarmed  nor 
astonished  at  the  apparition.  She  spoke  to  Rose,  and  told 
her  all  her  sorrows  ;  but  without  telling  her,  however,  the  se- 
cret desire  of  her  heart,  and  yet  Rose,  unheeding  the  rest,  an- 
swered that  desire,  and  said  to  her  with  a  smile:  "  Try." 
'•  I  dare  not,  Rose ;  I  dare  not." 
But  still  her  sister  smiled,  and  said  :  "  Try." 
And  her  voice  was  so  distinct  and  clear  that  Nathalie 
Keemed  to  hear  it  still  when  she  awoke  with  a  sudden  start. 
She  looked  around  her ;  the  little  room  was  silent ;  the  sun 
was  setting  in  the  west  with  a  full  refulgent  glow  which  daz- 
zled the  eyes  of  the  young  girl.  Her  brain  swam,  and  her 
heart  beat  tumultuously.  Was  it  a  dream  or  a  revelation  ? 
Nathalie  was  not  superstitious,  she  was  too  much  of  a  southern 
to  be  mystical ;  no  secret  weakness  inclined  her  to  put  faith 
in  the  supernatural.  Yet  for  once  she  would  believe ;  for 
once  she  would  not  heed  reasoning,  argument,  or  cold  logic ; 
for  on<;e,  too,  she  would  not  pause,  hesitate,  or  think  ;  she 
would  not  take  time  to  reflect,  and  perchance  repent  She 
left  the  house  at  once,  entered  the  avenue  of  the  chateau, 
passed  by  the  servant  who  admitted  her  without  a  word,  and 
whilst  he  still  asked  if  she  did  not  wish  to  see  the  Canoness, 
she  opened  the  library  door  and  closed  it  behind  her.  Then 
for  the  first  time  did  her  heart  fail  her,  and  did  she  feel  what 
she  had  done. 

He  sat  near  one  of  the  windows  reading ;  he  did  not  hear 
the  door  open  and  close  again ;  he  did  not  see  her  until  she 
.-4ood  facing  him  and  her  shadow  darkened  the  floor  before 
him.  He  slowly  raised  his  head,  looked  at  her  fixedly,  and 
his  face  darkened  as  he  looked. 

"  You  wish  to  speak  to  me,"  said  he,  rising  ;  his  tone  was 
polite  and  chilling. 

Nathalie  at  first  could  not  answer  ;  she  stood  before  him 
pale  and  mute. 


Nathalie.  403 

"  I  suppose  it  is  my  aunt  you  want,''  he  observed,  with 
felight  impatience. 

'•  No,  sir,  I  came  here  to  speak  to  you." 

He  offered  her  a  seat,  and  resumed  his.  His  face  an- 
nounced the  inflexible  determination  of  one  prepared  to  listen, 
but  firmly  resolved  not  to  yield.     Nathalie's  heart  failed  her. 

"  Sir,"  she  said  at  length,  in  a  faltering  tone,  "  your  aunt 
has  often  asked  me  to  return  to  her  as  her  companion ;  sho 
said  it  was  your  wish  that  I  should  reside  here  with  her  ;  may 
I  do  so  now?" 

He  gave  her  a  keen  surprised  look,  and  coldly  replied  : 

"  How  fond  you  must  be  of  my  aunt,  Mademoiselle  Mou- 
tolieu  !" 

"  May  it  be  so?"  asked  Nathalie. 

He  frowned,  and  seemed  much  disturbed. 

'■  You  put  me  in  a  strange  position,"  he  at  length  replied  ; 
"  allow  me  to  inform  you,  lest  you  should  be  laboring  under 
some  mistake,  that  Sainville  is  and  shall  always  be  my  place 
of  residence.  If  any  person  has,  therefore,  given  you  to  un- 
derstand that  I  am  going  away  for  an  indefinite  period,  that 
person  has  deceived  you." 

"  No  one  has  given  me  to  understand  this,"  said  Nathalie, 
with  a  settled  calmness  that  bespoke  the  resignation  to  endure 
much. 

He  looked  cmbarrased.  There  was  a  pause.  She  re- 
sumed ; 

"  May  it  be  so?"  Her  tone  was  beseeching  and  low.  Her 
persistency  seemed  to  provoke  him. 

"  Your  conduct  is  strange  and  indiscreet,"  he  said  at  length. 
"  You  will  compel  me  to  very  disagreeable  frankness  !" 

"  Pray  speak  freely,"  she  quietly  replied. 

'^  Well,  then,  allow  me  to  ask  how  we  can  both  reside  in  tho 
same  house  ?" 

Strange  question  from  his  lips  !  She  pressed  her  hand  to 
her  brow  ;  she  saw  herself  again  in  that  same  library  one  even- 
ing ;  she  heard  his  voice  again  saying :  "  Remain  my  child, 
remain  !"  and  looking  up,  she  n;et  his  cold  altered  face,  and 
chilling  glance. 

"  Sir,"  she  answered,  very  calmly,  "  do  not  imagine  I  shall 
Beck  to  encroach  upon  you.  Do  not  fear  that  I  shall  seek  to 
meet  you,  for  I  know  that  you  would  not  now  as  you  once  did, 
like  it.  But  even  if  we  should  chance  to  meet,  you  are  so  in- 
difi'ercnt  to  me  now,  that  it  sui-ely  cannot  affect  you ;  besides 


f96  NATHALIE. 

vou  need  not  speak  ;  I  know  your  face,  its  changes,  its  mean 
mg.  I  know  when  to  venture,  when  to  draw  back.  A  time 
may  come  when  you  will  be  indifferent  and  not  care  whether  I 
am  by,  and  then  if  chance  should  bring  us  together,  I  may  not 
be  quite  powerless  to  cheer  or  divert  j'our  thoughts.  Heaven 
knows  I  speak  in  no  presumptuous  spirit,  and  therefore  though 
you  now  smile  so  coldly,  I  feel  no  hesitation  and  no  shame  in 
saying,  that  I  long  to  do  something  that  will  lighten  your 
cheerless  solitude.  Do  not  think  for  one  moment  I  imagine  you 
regret  me ;  but  do  not  tell  me  your  are  happy ;  I  would  not 
believe  you.  I  have  been  a  little  sad  of  late,  but  there  are 
days  when  I  feel  that  I  am  still  very  young.  I  have  not  lost 
all  the  gayety  of  my  years,  that  gayety  which  could  once  please 
or  at  least  make  you  smile.  For  your  sake  I  will  bring  it  all 
back,  for  jour  sake  I  will  be  cheerful  and  gay.     Oh  !  let  me." 

"  Mademoiselle  Montolieu,"  he  coldly  asked,  '•  do  you  wish 
to  come  here  as  my  aunt's  companion,  or  as  mine?" 

"  I  understand  the  taunt,"  said  she,  turning  pale,  "  but  I 
do  not  deny  it,  Sir.  I  speak  not  to  him  whose  wife  I  was  once 
to  have  been — that  is  past — I  speak  to  Monsieur  de  Sainville, 
my  host,  guardian,  friend;  my  shield  from  ill  when  there  were 
none  else  to  shield  me  ;  my  adviser  when  I  was  erring ;  severe 
sometimes,  and  yet  kind  in  his  severity.  I  seek  not  to  recall 
the  memory  of  a  time  when  feverish  passion  troubled  and  de- 
luded ;  when  meetings  ever  seemed  too  brief,  too  few ;  when 
days  sped  fast  like  hours,  or  lingered  slow  like  years ;  when 
doubt  was  torture,  and  hope  enchantment.  But  I  would  recall 
those  first  few  weeks  when  I  was  nothing  to  you,  save  a  friend- 
less girl  to  protect ;  when  you  were  my  kind  indulgent  host — 
no  more ;  wh"'n  we  met  without  having  sought  it  and  spoke 
freely ;  when  we  parted  without  fearing  the  morrow ;  when 
time  had  the  same  calm,  even  flow  from  day  to  day.  Oh  !  I 
like  to  think  there  has  been  between  vis  some  other  bond  be- 
sides the  troubled,  exacting  feeling  that  embittered  existence  ; 
that  wo  were  friends  once  !  Why  were  we  ever  more,  or  rather 
why  were  we  ever  less  ?  We  are  in  the  very  same  spot  where 
first  we  met  and  spoke.  Oh  !  that  v/hat  has  passed  since  then, 
were  a  dream  !  that  some  charm  might  carry  us  back  to  that 
hour !  that  you  were  again  the  host  who  questioned,  and  I  the 
thoughtless  girl  who  replied  so  heedlessly,  and  often  made  you 
smile  !" 

Sobs  impeded  her  utterance.  The  memory,  the  bitter 
regret  of  friendship,  affection,  esteem,  and  confidence  gone  for 


NATHALIE.  497 

ever,  were  uiDon  her — they  filled  her  desolate  heart  even  to 
overflowing.     He  remained  silent  and  unmoved. 

'•  I  regret,"  he  at  length  observed,  "  to  draw  a  nice  distinc- 
tion that  has  escaped  you.  I  was  your  friend,  and  ever  meant 
to  be  such  ;  but  there  was,  there  could  be  no  friendship  between 
a  man  of  my  age  and  feelings,  and  a  young  girl  of  your  years 
and  temper.  The  feeling  I  had  for  you  bore  no  resemblance 
to  friendship ;  you  know  what  that  feeling  was,  how  it  fared, 
what  it  has  become." 

She  bowed  her  head  and  clasped  her  hands ;  love  had  long 
been  wrecked,  but  friendship  could  not  perish ;  it  had  never 
even  existed. 

"  Sir,"  she  replied,  in  a  subdued  tone,  "  there  is  a  feeling  I 
thought  little  of  till  now,  but  which  you  cannot  check ;  grati- 
tude. I  will  be  grateful  to  him  who  stretched  out  a  hand  to 
save  me  from  disgrace ;  to  hira  who  protected  me  against  his 
own  sister  and  nephew,  though,  as  it  seems  now,  caring  nothing 
for  me  ;  to  him  who  was  far  more  generous  and  disinterested 
than  I  ever  thought." 

'•And  how  do  you  know  he  was  disinterested?"  he  bitterly 
asked.  '•  How  do  you  know  that  from  the  first  moment  you 
stood  here  before  him,  a  young  and  lovely  girl,  the  singleness  of 
purpose,  the  generosity  you  speak  of,  did  not  vanish  ?" 

Strange  confession  of  a  bygone  love !  She  looked  up  quick- 
ly, a  flush  rose  to  her  brow,  but  his  cold  smile  recalled  her  to 
the  present,  and  a  sharp  pang  crossed  her  heart. 

"  Then  since  you  leave  me  no  other  claim,"  she  cried  almost 
passionately,  '•  let  me  plead  by  the  evil  I  have  done,  the  pain  I 
have  inflicted.  I  have  hurt,  I  have  wounded  you  deeply  ;  yes, 
deeply,  and,  in  spite  of  all  your  pride,  you  know  it.  Not  in 
the  name  of  friendship  which  never  was,  of  love  which  soon  de- 
parted, but  of  sorrow  and  sufi"ering  which  abide,  do  I  beseech 
you  now." 

"  You  have  courage,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  fixedly,  "  and 
generosity  too,  I  have  no  doubt ;  but  both  are  useless  in  this 
case.  It  is  not  my  aunt's  companion  you  wish  to  be ;  it  is 
mine.  Do  you  think  the  world  would  not  soon  notice  this  ? 
Do  you  think  it  would  not  soon  construe  into  the  most  evil 
5ense  the  fact  of  a  man  of  my  age  having  for  his  companion 
rind  friend  a  young  girl  like  you  ?" 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  one  who  has  raised  an  unanswerable 
objection,  but  she  quickly  replied  : 

"  Well  then,  let  her  not  be  your  companion  or  your  friend ; 
let  her  be  your  child." 


i98  ^ATHALIE. 

But  his  temper,  wliich  he  had  evidently  been  restraining 
forsook  him  as  her  pertinacity  increased. 

"  Mademoiselle."  he  shortly  replied,  "  I  once  told  you  I  had 
the  fatherly  instinct  most  imperfectly  developed.  I  have  not 
improved  since  then." 

"  And  yet  you  then  called  me  your  child,"  she  sadly  au' 
Bwered. 

"  Just  as  I  called  you  '  Petite,'  and  many  a  foolish  name 
besides." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  remembered  those  names 
of  endearment,  ay,  to  the  very  low  and  lingering  tones  in 
which  they  were  uttered  ;  tones  which  rushed  back  to  her  naw 
as  he  spoke  in  a  voice  so  cold  and  altered. 

"  I  was  not  asking  for  a  father's  affection,"  she  resumed, 
'•what  claim  have  I  to  it?  but  for  the  shelter  of  a  father's 
name.  You  once  would  not  have  disdained  to  give  mo  that 
name  as  your  wife,  and  I  have  done  nothing  wrong,  nothing 
unworthy  since  then." 

He  did  not  reply,  but  his  face  darkened  visibly. 

She  continued — 

'•  You  need  not  tell  me  that  you  will  not  care  for  me.  I 
know  and  can  bear  it.  Many  a  child  through  fault  or  folly  is 
shut  out  from  its  fathers  heart.  I  shall  fancy  myself  one  of 
these,  and  move  silently  about  the  house  until  I  am  at  last  for- 
given and  i-estored  to  favor.  I  was  proud  once,  too  proud ; 
but  now  I  speak  from  the  fulness  of  my  heart  let  me  be  your 
child,  vour  daughter." 

'■'•  A  nice  father  I  should  make,"  he  ironically  said  ;  "  very 
kind,  indulgent  and  amiable." 

There  was  hesitation  in  his  very  irony.  A  ray  of  sudden 
hope  entered  her  heart. 

••  Let  me,  let  me,"  she  urged.  "  I  shall  be  more  patient  as 
a  daughter  than  I  have  been  as  a  mistress,  than  I  might  have 
been  as  wife.  You  ai-e  harsh,  you  say,  I  care  not ;  I  will  bear 
all,  but  let  me  be  your  daughter." 

"  Foolish,  foolish  girl !"  he  bitterly  exclaimed  ;  "  how  can 
you  be  my  daughter  1  Have  you  forgotten  you  •were  once  to 
be  my  wife?" 

'•  Forgotten  it !  no  ;  but  I  am  not  the  idolater  I  once  was. 
I  do  not  think  now  there  is  but  one  way  of  loving;  the  mist 
of  passion  has  fallen  from  my  eyes,  but  believe  me,  affection, 
undying  affection,  is  still  true  and  fervent  in  my  heart.  You 
know  I  speak  not  thui  to  win  back  what  was  lost.     You  know 


NATHALIE.  499 


I  do  not.  Look  at  me  !  I  am  no  unblushing  woman  come  tc 
Bue  for  love  withheld.  You  know  I  am  not.  Therefore,  I  say 
again,  let  me  be  your  daughter,  your  child,  live  here  with  you. 
Let  the  world  wonder ;  it  knows  your  honor  ;  it  will  not  dara 
suspect. 

••  Perhaps  I  may  feel  awkward  at  first  a*  the  memory  of  the 
past  rises  before  me,  but  I  shall  know  how  to  subdue  this  false 
and  sinful  shame.  I  shall  forget  the  words  of  fondness  and 
passion  which  once  greeted  my  ear,  to  think  only  that  you  liked 
to  call  me  your  child,  and  perhaps  never  loved  me  better,  when 
you  called  me  so.  I  shall  forget  that  once  I  blushed,  trembled, 
and  shunned  a  caress,  for  now  it  is  I  who  shall  seek  my  father, 
<ind  sit  down  by  his  side  if  he  will  let  me.  Oh  !  let  me  be  your 
child, — let  me  be  your  daughter." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sank  down  on  her 
knees  before  him,  bowed,  and  weeping.  At  length  she  looked 
up  ;  though  his  pale  face  seemed  slightly  moved,  his  look  was 
stern  and  unrelenting  still.  But  a  faith,  such  as  she  had  never 
known  before,  was  in  Nathalie's  heart.  She  believed  and 
hoped,  both  fervently  and  far  too  deeply  to  be  so  easily  dis- 
mayed. She  took  his  unresisting  hands,  she  joined  them  on 
her  head,  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  knee,  she  said  again  : — 

"  Let  me  be  your  child." 

'•  My  child  !  my  child,  indeed !"  he  exclaimed  in  a  broken 
tone. 

She  raised  her  glance,  smiling  rapturously  through  her 
tears ;  he  stooped  and  lifted  her  up  ;  his  arms  were  around 
jier,  and  held  her  fast;  he  gathered  her  to  his  heart ;  he  kissed 
her  many  a  time.  She  felt  that  he  trembled  ;  that  tears  not  all 
her  own  were  on  her  cheek  ;  that  the  cold,  stern  man  was  melt- 
ed ;  that  pure  love  had  triumphed  ;  that  faith  had  won.  And 
as  she  twined  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  laid  her  he'u,d  on 
his  shoulder,  with  all  the  abandonment  of  a  daughter's  holiest 
love  a  joy  far  deeper,  because  far  more  pure  than  any  she  had 
yet  known,  thrilled  through  the   heart  that  now  beat  near  his. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  child,"  he  said  at  length,  looking 
tenderly  in  her  eyes,  ''you  have  a  kind  heart." 

"  Then  you  do  mean  it,  you  do  mean  it,"  she  joyously  ex- 
claimed, "  I  am  to  be  your  child  indeed." 

."Poor  little  thing  !  What  precious  boon  is  this?" 

"  A  precious  boon  to  me.  Do  you  imagine  I  do  not  mean 
to  consider  myself  your  child  1  Indeed  I  will  revere  and  obey 
you  as  a  father  ;  nay,  I  will  even  ask  you  for  any  thing  I  may 
Deed.     Yes,  without  shame." 


500  NATHALIE. 

He  looked  mucli  moved,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  I  feel  so  happy,"  she  continued,  her  cheeks  deepening  in 
color  as  she  spoke.  "  Oh  !  this  moment  ought  to  last  for  an 
eternity.  I  long  to  suspend  time,  life,  and  being ;  but  you  look 
sad  and  grave  !  Oh,  onoii  Dieu  !  I  have  a  dread  that  if  I  leave 
you,  and  only  go  out  of  the  room,  you  will  repent,  grow  stern 
again,  and  reject  me." 

He  only  smiled. 

"  Monsieur  de  Sainville!"  she  exclaimed,  with  sudden  ter- 
ror, "give  me  your  word  that  you  will  not  retract." 

"My  child,"  he  replied,  "I  will  promise  all  you  like;  but 
do  not  call  me  Monsieur  de  Sainville." 

'•  And  how  then  must  I  call  you  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  de- 
lighted glance,  for  she  expected  that  his  reply  would  be  "  Youi  • 
father." 

"  Armand,"  he  quietly  answered. 

Nathalie  trembled,  and  averted  her  look. 

"  Armand  !  Armand  !"  she  echoed,  in  a  faltering  tone,  "  what 
daughter  calls  her  father  by  his  name  ?" 

There  was  a  brief  silence. 

"  And  what  wife  does  not  call  her  husband  thus?"  heat 
length  replied.  "  Do  not  look  so  startled  !"  he  added,  detaining 
her  as  she  attempted  to  leave  him  ;  "but  hear  me  out.  I  know 
you  did  not  dream  of  this  in  coming  here,  but  what  matter? 
Our  old  love  is  gone,  you  will  say  ;  well,  be  it  so.  Yours  was 
more  the  romance  of  youth  than  true  love,  and  whilst  loving 
you,  I  fear  I  cared  too  much  for  your  youth  and  delightful 
beauty.  I  look  cold,  but  I  am  not ;  and,  alas  !  have  never  been 
indifferent  to  such  things.  But  now,  my  child,  your  love  is 
true, — now  mine  is  pure," 

But  Nathalie  was  weeping ;  fear  was  at  her  heart ;  she 
clung  close  to  him  as  if  he  had  urged  separation,  not  re-union. 

"  Oh  !  let  me  be  your  child,"  she  said  imploringly. 

"  Petite,  you  talk  like  a  child  ;  I  shall  make  a  confiding  and 
indulging  husband,  but,  believe  me,  an  exacting  and  too  jealous 
a  father.  I  will  have  you  love  no  other  as  you  once  loved  me. 
I  will  share  your  affection  with  no  living  man.  Remember 
that !"  and  for  a  moment  he  pressed  her  closer  to  him,  with  a 
sort  of  violence. 

"  Oh  !  I  shall  not  marry,  of  course,"  said  Nathalie,  coloring, 
and  speaking  very  eagerly. 

"And  do  you  imagine,"  he  gravely  replied,  "  that  apart  from 
eyery  other  consideration,  I  shall  be  so  selfish  as  to  accept  tho 


NATHALIE.  501 

fiacvifice  of  jour  existence?  shall  you  alone  be  excluded  from 
the  destiny  of  woman?  Shall  you  alone  have  no  fixed  position, 
no  true  home,  no  future,  no  husband  to  protect  you,  no  children 
to  love  and  caress?  What  father  would  doom  his  child  to  so 
cheerless  a  destiny  ?" 

But  still  she  wept,  and  urged  her  pleading,  and  asked  to 
be  'only  his  child.' 

"  It  shall  be  so  if  you  wish  it,"  he  replied,  whilst  a  change 
came  over  his  features.  '•  Yes,  you  shall  be  my  adopted  child, 
live  with  me,  call  me  father,  and  bear  my  name.  But  do  not 
deceive  yourself,  after  this  first  moment  of  emotion,  our  inter- 
course must  perforce  grow  cold  and  constrained.  You  are  not 
of  my  blood  or  race  :  I  have  not  known  you  as  a  child,  and  seen 
you  growing  up  to  what  you  are  now.  You  were  a  woman  when 
first  we  met,  as  a  woman  I  have  loved  you,  and  that  first  im- 
pression I  can  never  wholly  efi'ace.  Believe  me,  the  perfect 
freedom,  the  confidence,  the  unrestrained  caress — these  may 
not  exist  between  us,  these  never  do  exist,  save  between  those 
whom  one  blood  unites.  And  yet,  as  I  said,  if  you  wish  it,  it 
shall  be  so,  but  I  feel  that  this  actual  moment, — so  pure,  so 
delightful — once  over,  will  never  return  again.  You  weep  ; 
am  I  grieving  you,  poor  child  !  Well,  if  it  must  be,  you  need 
not  speak  ;  leave  me  quietly,  silently ;  I  shall  understand  If 
not,  remain  thus  :  my  child — my  wife." 

He  told  her  to  leave  him,  but  an  irresistible  impulse  made 
him  only  hold  her  more  fast.  He  bent  over  her ;  his  voice  was 
moved  and  low  ;  her  hands  lay  clasped  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
her  face  lay  hidden  upon  them.  He  heard,  he  felt  her  weeping, 
but  she  did  not  move  ;  he  thought  she  consented  ;  a  blessing 
passed  his  lips  ;  he  stooped  to  kiss  her  cheek,  but  she  shunned 
the  embrace ;  she  slowly  raised  her  head  from  his  shoulder, 
yet  di  i  not  raise  her  look ;  she  disengaged  herself  from  the 
arms  that  encircled  her,  and  gently  drew  away  from  Monsieur 
de  Sainville,  until  she  stood  free  before  him.  He  did  not  seek 
to  detain  her — he  did  not  speak,  but  watched  her  silently  and 
with  a  strange  pang  at  his  heart.  She  laid  her  folded  hands 
on  her  bosom,  and  stood  looking  at  him  quietly. 

"  Monsieur  de  Sainville,"  said  she,  in  a  tremulous  tone,  "  I 
do  not  think  I  am  worth  very  much,  and  yet  if  you  care  for  me, 
you  may  have  me.  I  do  not  think  I  am  a  great  prize  to  win, 
but  if  you  do  indeed  value  me,  here  I  am." 

He  looked  glad,  wondering,  but  she  knew  the  privileges  of 
her  sex  too  well  not  to  reverse  the  sign  he  had  chosen — not  to 


b02  NATH,vLIE. 

leave  his  side  when  she  gave  iierself  for  life — not  to  withhold 
as  aflaanced  bride  the  familiar  caress  freely  yielded  as  daughter 
and  child. 

He  took  the  hand  which  she  held  out  to  him.  He  vowed  to 
love  her  through  life  with  fidelity,  tenderness  and  truth  ;  to 
protect  and  cherish  her  with  all  the  watchful  care  of  a  father, 
all  the  love  of  a  husband. 

"  And  I,  Armand,"  said  she,  looking  up  seriously  into  his 
face,  "  I  vow  to  love,  honor,  and  obey  you,  not  by  word  of  lip 
alone  before  the  mayor  or  the  priest,  but  with  my  whole  heart, 
and  in  every  action  of  my  daily  life  " 

This  was  their  second  betrothal  The  promise  of  eternal 
affection  she  had  once  required  now  came  unsought ;  the  obedi- 
ence he  had  once  exacted  was  now  yielded  unasked.  The 
thought  struck  them  both ;  their  looks  met. 

"  The  new  love  is  more  faithful  and  less  exacting  than  the 
old,  my  child,"  said  he,  a  little  sadly. 

But  a  glow  rose  to  her  cheeks. 

"  No,  no.  do  not  say  that,"  she  fervently  exclaimed.  "  I 
cannot  at  least  sever  myself  from  a  past  with  all  its  errors  so 
dear  and  delightful.  I  would  not  have  that  past  effaced  ;  that 
love  dead  and  forgotten  ;  my  heart  clings  to  both  as  to  a  part 
of  my  being.  Speak  not  of  a  new  love  ;  there  is  but  one  ;  a 
stream  of  living  water  that  never  ceased  to  flow;  that  is  fresh 
and  springing  still.  What  is  altered  ?  do  we  speak,  look,  feel 
differently  ?  See  !  I  sit  by  your  side  as  I  sat  before,  many  a 
time  ;  that  face  at  which  I  now  look  is  not  less  kind  than  of 
yore.  If  there  bo  a  change,  tell  it  me  not;  my  eyes  and  heart 
are  blind  ;  I  neither  see  nor  feel  it.  Breathe  not  a  doubt,  not 
one.  I  feel  in  a  divine  dream  ;  waken  me  not.  Let  me  float 
down  the  current  of  destiny :  let  nie  read  the  book  of  life 
slowly,  page  by  page.  If  there  be  sorrow,  faithlessness,  and 
weariness  of  the  heart  in  store  for  me,  I  shall  at  least  have 
been  happy  for  a  few  years ;  I  shall  have  had  my  ray  of  sun- 
shine, and  many,  God  help  them  !  see  only  the  same  bleak  and 
desolate  sky  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  their  journey — 
speak  not  of  change;  I  tell  you  there  is  none." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  not  improved  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile. 

"  Not  a  bit.     And  you?"  she  added,  after  a  pause. 

"  My  poor  child,  I  have  no  wish  to  deceive  you.  I  certain- 
ly have  not  improved." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth.  I  know  it  all ;  the  whole  town  is  full 


NATHALIE.  503 

of  stories  concerning  your  amiabilit}'.     You  pass  for  a  sort  of 
Blue  Beard,  shut  up  in  your  chateau." 

"  Yes,  I  have  grown  morose." 

"  I  saw  it  in  your  face  the  moment  I  entered  tlie  room  ; — 
yes,  very  morose,  but  I  shall  cheer  you." 

"  And  bitter,  Petite." 

"But  I  am  so  amiable  !  You  look  skeptical  ?  Well,  I  have 
not  been  very  amiable  of  late,  but  I  will  tell  you  why  ;  one  of 
your  evil  spirits — the  spirit  of  cold  pride — has  been  with  me 
It  is  gone  now,  gone  for  ever.  I  have  been  trying  to  be  you, 
and  have  made  myself  very  wretched.  I  must  be  myself  back 
again — there  is  no  remedy  for  it  I  must  be  once  more  the 
foolish  girl  who  quarrelled  with  Mademoiselle  Dantin,  and  who 
very  nearly  quarrelled  with  you  the  first  time  she  entered  this 
quiet  library.  She  is  very  faulty  ;  I  know  that,  and  yet  she  has 
her  good  points  too.  When  she  is  perverse,  bear  with  her.  and 
when  she  is  foolishly-trusting,  chill  not  her  faith  with  cold  les- 
sons, for  it  is  in  her  nature — she  must  go  on,  deceived  if  you 
will,  but  still  hoping  and  believing." 

At  first  he  did  not  reply,  but  he  made  her  turn  her  fluslied 
face  to  the  fading  light,  and  looked  at  her  attentively. 

'•  Petite,"  he  said,  "you  have  a  curious  charm.  By  what 
secret  spell  have  you  wound  yourself  around  my  heart — I  need 
not  tell  you  it  is  not  very  tender,  or  yielding  by  nature — so 
that  it  almost  seems  I  cannot  help  liking  you  still,  no  matter 
what  you  do  ?  I  loved  another  woman  once,  very  beautiful, 
very  gentle,  very  winning,  but  she  never  had  that  power  over 
me,  and  when  I  chose  to  cease  loving  her,  she  could  not  make 
me  love  on.     Why  is  this?" 

Nathalie  smiled  with  a  smile  so  bright  and  radiant,  spite  of 
that  dusky  room,  that  like  Una's  angel  face,  it  made  for  a 
moment 

A  sunshine  in  the  shady  place. 

"Because,"  she  replied,  "  I  love  with  my  whole  soul,  with 
my  whole  heart — that  is  the  secret ;  you  know  it — there  Ue8 
the  charm." 


504  NATHALIE. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

The  Canoness  sat  alone  in  her  boudoir.  She  had  been 
reading  in  her  prayer-book,  but  it  now  lay  closed  on  the  table 
near  her.  She  wept  slowly  ;  tears  come  not  in  old  age  with  the 
same  rapid  gush  with  which  they  flow  in  youth.  She  felt  sad 
and  lonely.  Her  deafness  had  increased  of  late,  and  as  she 
sat  facing  the  window  with  her  back  to  the  door,  she  did  not 
know  that  any  one  had  entered,  until  her  nephew  stood  by  her 
chair.  He  took  her  hand,  kissed  it,  and  sat  down  by  her  side. 
Their  intercourse  had  been  cold  and  constrained  of  late ;  she 
felt  this  proof  of  returning  aflfection,  for  her  voice  trembled  a 
little  as  she  said  : 

"  How  kind  of  you  to  come,  Armand  !    I  felt  so  dull." 

"  Your  life  is  dull,  aunt ;  you  want  some  one — a  companion." 

The  Canoness  shook  her  head ;  her  face  became  obscured. 
'•  She  wanted  no  companion." 

"  Yes,  aunt,  you  do  ;  and  I  have  found  one  for  you." 

"  Indeed,"  she  shortly  replied. 

"  Yes,  you  will  be  charmed  with  the  person  I  have  chosen 
for  you." 

"  I  can  choose  for  myself" 

"  Very  well ;  I  shall  send  word  that  she  need  not  come." 

He  stretched  his  hands  towards  the  bell-rope ;  his  aunt  de- 
tained him. 

"  Stay,  Armand,"  she  hesitatingly  observed,  "  one  must  not 
send  such  a  message;  besides,  what  sort  of  a  person  is  she?" 

"  A  very  agreeable  person,  aunt." 

At  the  word  agreeable,  the  Canoness  took  her  attentive  at- 
titude, coughed,  and  fidgeted  in  her  chair. 

"Young?"  she  asked,  pretending  to  look  straight  before  her, 
but  casting  a  stealthy  glance  at  her  nephew. 

"  Not  twenty,  I  believe." 

"Good-looking?"  she  asked,  with  the  same  look. 

"  She  is  very  pretty." 

"  I  will  not  have  her  !"  decisively  exclaimed  the  Canoness ; 
''■  I  will  not  have  her  !" 

"But  aunt " 

"  It  is  no  us&,  Armand  ;  I  will  not  have  her ;  not  for 
'vorlds !" 

"  My  dear  aunt !" 


NATHALIE.  505 

"  Not  for  worlds  !"  again  exclaimed   the    Canoness,  •who 
seemed  to  be  getting  excited. 

"  But  why  so,  aunt  ?" 

"  You  are  very  inquisitive,  Armand." 

"  I  only  want  to  know  your  reason  for  refusing." 

"  Well,  then,  I  refuse  because because  it  is  no  business 

of  yours,  Armand,"  was  her  abrupt  conclusion. 

'•  Aunt,  see  this  person.  She  has  a  charming  face,  a  thing 
you  like." 

"  So  do  you,"  muttered  the  Canoness. 

"  Her  society  would  delight  you." 

"  And  you  also,  no  doubt,"  she  observed,  in  the  same  tone. 

"  She  would  walk  with  you  in  the  garden." 

"  Or  meet  monsieur,  my  nephew,  there."  This  was  uttered 
sotto  voce. 

"  And  spend  the  evening  with  you  in  this  pretty  boudoir." 

'•  Which  would  be  much  prettier  than  now,  of  course,"  dryly 
replied  the  Canoness,  speaking  aloud,  for  she  was  getting  irri- 
tated. 

"  In  short,"  calmly  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  "  it  is  so  de- 
sirable a  scheme  that  you  will  surely  consent." 

His  aunt  turned  upon  him  indignantly. 

"  Armand,"  said  she,  drawing  herself  up,  folding  her  arms, 
and  sitting  erect  in  her  arm-chair,  "  am  I  or  am  I  not  a  woman 
of  penetration  ?" 

"  My  good  aunt !" 

"  No  coaxing  ;  am  I  or  am  I  not  a  woman  of  penetration  ?" 

"  I  never  denied  it,  aunt ;  what  about  it  ?" 

'■'•  Only  this,  Armand  ;  the  next  time  you  lay  your  schemes, 
and  think  to  make  me  the  instrument ;  don't  do  it  quite  so 
openly.     Do  not,  Armand,"  she  feelingly  added. 

Monsieur  de  SainvilLe  gravely  inquired  her  meaning.  But 
she  shook  her  head,  shut  her  eyes,  and  pursed  up  her  lips. 
^  She  know,  but  was  not  going  to  tell  him ;  not  she." 

"  I  see,  aunt,  you  are  prejudiced  against  this  poor  girl." 

The  Canoness  reclined  back  in  her  chair,  and  smiled  iron 
ically. 

"  How  unjust !  she  has  quite  an  affection  for  you." 

"  An  affection  !"    Aunt  Radegonde  looked  indignant. 

"  She  has  no  greater  desire  than  to  spend  the  remaftidcr  of 
her  days  with  you." 

Aunt  Radegonde  looked  confounded. 
.  '•  She  said  she  knew  you  needed  her  company  " 
22 


506  NATHALIE. 

"  Company  ! — her   company  !     Impertinent  little  thing  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  seemed  quite  confident  about  it." 

The  Canoness  laid  her  folded  Iiands  on  her  knees,  and 
turned  her  head  from  right  to  left,  with  a  bewildered  look. 

"  Little  intrigante  /"  she  exclaimed.  More  she  could  not 
say;  she  was,  to  use  a  French  expression,  '•'■  suffoqu^e.''^ 

"  Indeed,"  quietly  continued  her  nephew,  "  her  kindly  feel- 
ing towards  you  quite  won  my  heart." 

"  Won  his  heart !"  The  Canoness  looked  at  him  with  silent 
reproach. 

''  Oh  !  Nathalie.  Petite,  my  good  child,  ray  dear  li'tle  thing," 
she  sadly  said.  '•  I  knew  you  were  forgotten.  I  did  not  know 
you  would  be  so  soon  replaced." 

Two  large  tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks.  Monsieur  do 
Sainville  looked  a  little  moved. 

"  Aunt,"  said  he  quietly,  "  look  behind  you." 

The  Canoness  slowly  turned  round,  and  uttered  a  faint  cry : 
in  the  shadow  of  the  room  behind  her  chair  stood  Nathalie, 
looking  at  her  and  laughing  and  crying,  as  she  looked  both  at 
once.  The  poor  Canoness  remained  mute  ;  but  the  young  girl 
stepped  quickly  round  the  chair,  knelt  on  the  floor,  kissed  the 
hands  of  her  old  friend,  and  passing  her  arms  around  her, 
clasped  her  slender  little  waist. 

"  Yes,  Marraine."  she  said,  laughing,  but  her  eyes  and 
cheeks  still  glittering  with  recent  tears,  '•  here  is  the  imperti- 
nent little  thing;  the  little  intrigante!  Well,  why  do  you 
not  send  her  away  about  her  business  at  once  ?" 

The  Canoness  shook  away  the  tears  that  would  gather  in 
her  eyes  ;  she  laid  one  hand  on  either  shoulder  of  the  young 
girl,  stooped  and  kissed  her  heartily ;  her  face  beamed  with 
joy.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  stood  leaning  against  the  back  of 
his  aunt's  arm-chair ;  he  smiled  as  he  looked  on,  with  a  purer 
ioy  and  gentler  emotion  than  any  he  had  experienced  for  many 
a  day.  To  receive  happiness  is  delightful ;  to  bestow  it  is 
blessed. 

Five  minutes  had  not  elapsed  before  they  all  three  looked 
very  comfortable  indeed.  Nathalie  sat  on  a  low  stool  at  the 
feet  of  the  Canoness.  and  Monsieur  de  Sainville  on  a  low  couch 
by  his  aunt's  side.  The  Canoness,  like  a  practical  little  woman 
as  she  was,  had,  her  first  emotion  over,  exacted  from  Nathalie 
a  solemn  promise  never  to  leave  her  again,  which  promise  the 
young  girl  had  yielded  with  a  smile  and  a  kiss.  But  though 
Aunt  lladegonde  ought  now  to  have  been  quite  happy,  sho  did 


NATHALIE.  507 

not  seem  so.  She  looked  at  Monsieur  de  Sainville ;  he  had 
relapsed  into  his  usaal  gravity ;  she  glanced  at  NatJaalie,  the 
young  girl  seemed  rather  pensive.  The  Canoness  smiled  to 
herself  with  an  air  of  much  finesse,  and  felt  that  until  slie  in- 
terfered, certain  matters  would  never  go  right.  She  hesitating- 
ly took  her  nephew's  hand  and  held  it  fast  between  her  slender 
little  fingers,  whose  grasp  he  could  with  one  effort  have  eluded  ; 
then  she  took  Nathalie's  hand  and  softly  glided  it  into  his  ; 
and  holding  those  two  hands  firmly  clasped  within  her  own, 
she  gave  the  owners  a  wistful  and  appealing  look. 

'•  Children,"  she  began,  but  her  voice  faltered  and  died  in 
articulately  away,  whilst  her  eyes  overflowed  with  tears — 

"Come,  aunt,"  quietly  said  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  "be 
quite  easy ;  Petite  and  I  are  friends." 

'•  Thank  heaven  !"  devoutly  said  the  Canoness,  much  re- 
lieved. But  in  a  few  moments  her  fears  and  doubts  returned. 
She  looked  inquiringly  at  her  nephew  and  Nathalie.  They 
looked  calm  and  happy  enough,  but,  with  her  usual  penetra- 
tion. Aunt  Radegonde  saw  plainly  all  was  not  yet  quite  right. 

"  Arraand,"  she  said,  very  seriously,  '•  do  you  think  me  a 
woman  of  experience,  and  will  you  take  my  advice  ?" 

'•  That  depends  on  the  advice,  aunt,"  he  replied  with  a 
,«mile. 

"  Armand,"  decisively  said  the  Canoness,  her  heart  beating, 
however,  at  the  daring  experiment  she  made,  "  Armand,  mar- 
ry Petite." 

Her  heart  failed  her  ;  he  did  not  answer ;  he  looked  grave, 
and  she  construed  his  gravity  into  displeasure. 

"  Armand,"  she  said,  with  much  emotion,  "  marry  her  ; 
Bhe  loves  you  in  her  heart,  she  does.  I  never  told  you  before, 
but  I  will  tell  you  now,  that  when  you  were  ill  she  stood  at  the 
door  of  your  room  pale  and  trembling,  poor  child,  and  when  I 
went  to  whii^per  that  you  would  not  see  her,  she  just  bowed 
her  head,  ani  turning  away,  gave  a  look  at  that  threshold 
which  she  might  not  cross — a  look  that  almost  broke  my  heart. 
'  I  will  not  hush,"  said  she,  pushing  away  the  hand  which  Na- 
thalie quickly  laid  on  her  lips,  "  1  will  not  hush  !  do  you  think 
I  have  nothing  to  say  about  him?  do  you  think  he  has  n©t 
longed  to  have  his  own  Petite  back  again  ;  ay,  many  a  time  ? 
Do  you  think  he  wuuld  not  now  give  any  thing  to  have  her  sit 
ting  by  his  side,  as  she  has  sat  so  often  ?  He  would,  child,  he 
would,  let  him  deny  it  if  he  can  !" 

He  denied  nothing.  The  Canoness,  who  watched  him  eager- 


508  NATHALIE. 

ly,  felt  that  the  decisive  moment  was  come.  She  rose  from  her 
seat,  pale  and  trembling  ;  she  took  Nathalie's  hand  and  made 
her  rise  too  ;  she  led  her  to  her  nephew,  and  the  young  girl 
yielded  to  her,  blushing  and  docile. 

"  Why  do  you  bring  me  this  perverse  little  thing?"  asked 
Monsieur  de  Sainville,  trying  to  frown  as  his  aunt  and  the 
young  girl  stood  before  him  ;  but  even  as  he  spoke  he  fondly 
drew  Nathalie  towards  him,  and  making  her  sit  on  the  couch 
by  his  side,  encircled  her  with  one  arm,  and  held  her  faat. 
She  slightly  drew  away  from  him,  and  looked  up  into  his  face 
with  a  smile,  half-arch,  half-triumphant. 

"  You  need  not  have  this  perverse  little  thing  if  you  do  not 
choose,  sir,"  she  said,  in  a  light  mocking  tone.  She  made  a 
motion  to  leave  his  side,  but  who  shall  say  that  in  her  heart 
she  either  cared  to  go,  or  thought  he  would  let  her  depart  ?  He 
did  not,  but  complacently  lifted  up  and  smoothed  back  a  dis- 
ordered tress  of  her  dark  hair,  whilst  she,  thus  sitting  by  him, 
one  hand  lightly  laid  on  his  shoulder,  looked  at  her  old  friend 
with  happy  and  blushing  pride. 

The  little  Canoness  stood  before  them,  her  eyes  blinded  by 
joyful  tears.  To  her  dying  day  this  good  creature  will  believe 
that  she,  and  she  alone,  reconciled  them ;  and  to  her  dying 
day  Monsieur  de  Sainville,  and  she  who  is  now  his  wife,  will 
tenderly  indulge  her  in  the  dear  illusion. 

"  Ah  !  wise  as  he  thinks  himself,  see  how  fondly  he  loves 
her  !"  thought  Aunt  Radegonde,  as  she  resumed  her  seat,  and 
thence  watched  them,  smiling  and  elated  at  the  submission  of 
man's  wisdom  to  woman's  power.  "  Well,  Monsieur  Armand 
and  Mademoiselle  Petite,"  she  observed  aloud,  "  you  may 
thank  me  for  this." 

Both  looked  up,  and  smiled  at  one  another  first,  then  at 
her. 

"  I  wish,"  said  her  nephew,  ''  you  would  tell  Mademoiselle 
Petite  to  take  off  her  scarf" 

"  Mademoiselle  Dantin  will  scold  if  she  remains  too  late," 
hesitatingly  observed  the  Canoness,  who  held  her  sour-temper- 
ed neighbor  in  secret  awe. 

"  Who  cares  about  Mademoiselle  Dantin  ?"  was  the  irreve- 
rent reply.     "  Are  you  afraid  of  her,  aunt  ?" 

"  No,  indeed,  Armand,  but  Petite " 

"  Petite  is  greatly  changed  if  she  is  afraid  of  any  thing  or 
any  one,"  interrupted  Monsieur  de  Sainville. 

Willing  to  convince  him  that  no  important  change  had 


NATHALIE.  509 

taken  place  in  her  temper,  Nathalie  unfastened  her  scarf  with 
silent  deliberation,  thus  expressing  her  determination  to  remain, 
even  at  the  imminent  risk  of  rousing  Mademoiselle  Dantin'a 
wrath.  The  Canoness  shook  her  head,  and  said  that,  "  if  Ma- 
demoiselle Dantin  was  cross " 

"  She  will  be  delighted,'"  interrupted  her  nephew. 

Aunt  Radegonde  looked  skeptical.  "  Mademoiselle  Dan- 
tin  detested  to  hear  of  those  things." 

•'  What  things,  aunt?"  he  gravely  asked. 

Aunt  Radegonde  bridled  up.  '•  People  might  make  myste- 
ries if  they  liked,  but  other  people  were  neither  deaf  nor  blind 
yet."     He  smiled. 

"  "Well,  aunt,"  said  he,  "  to  please  you " 

"  To  please  me,  Armand  !" 

"  I  mean  to  please  you  and  Petite." 

"  To  please  us  !     Armand,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Nothing,  aunt,  since  it  pleases  no  one." 

The  Canoness  looked  baffled.  She  liked  explanations  and 
little  scenes  of  the  pathetic  kind  :  her  nephew  shunned  and  de- 
tested them.  Nathalie,  resuming  her  old  place,  whispered  that 
he  was  only  jesting. 

"  "Very  unbecoming  jesting,"    stiffly  said  aunt  Radegonde. 

But  Monsieur  de  Sainville  seriously  declared  this  was  no 
jest,  but  the  conclusion  of  a  very  unbusiness-like  interview 
which  had  formerly  taken  place  between  himself  and  Mademoi- 
selle Montolieu  concerning  Mademoiselle  Dantin's  aft'airs.  Na- 
thalie, in  a  nettled  tone,  begged  his  pardon,  and  said  that  in- 
terview had  struck  her  as  very  business-like  indeed.  He  re- 
minded her,  with  a  smile,  that  she  had  never  mentioned  the 
intended  purchase  of  Madame  Ledru,  and  the  damages  that 
disappcinted  ladj  claimed,  and  hoped  she  would  not  now  for- 
get to  inform  the  schoolmistress  that  he  had  altered  his  mind, 
and,  owing  to  her  great  talents  for  business,  had  resolved  to 
pay  the  required  sum  for  the  rickety  house  and  strip  of  garden. 

"  I  shall  say  nothing  of  the  kind,"  replied  Nathalie,  looking 
exactly  as  she  formerly  looked  when  he  had  said  something  to 
provoke  her. 

All  that  the  Canoness  understood  was  that  Mademoisello 
Dantin  was  fast  leading  to  a  quarrel  it  was  high  time  for  her 
to  check. 

"  Armand,"  she  said,  with  much  stateliness,  '•  I  am  the  Iiead 
of  the  famil}',  am  I  not?  Well,  then,  tell  me  your  intentions 
with  regard  to  Petite  ?" 


610  NATHALIE. 

"  Aunt,  what  a  needless  question  !" 

"  Indeed,  no.  In  explanations  one  is  supposed  to  knc^ 
nothing,  and  I  am  not  aware  that  I  do  know  any  thing  Do 
you  intend  asking  her  to  become  your  wife?" 

^-  Yes,  aunt,  I  do.'' 

"  Well,  Petite,"  said  the  Canoness,  looking  down  at  Natha- 
lie, "  what  will  you  answer  ?" 

"  I  shall  answer  when  I  have  been  asked,"  was  the  demure 
reply. 

''  But,  Petite,  he  means  to  ask  you." 

"  So  do  I  mean  to  reply." 

The  Canoness  looked  greatly  provoked.  "  This  came,'  she 
hotly  said,  "of  having  any  thing  to  do  with  lovers  and  their 
quarrels.  They  would  still  be  at  drawn  daggers  but  for  her, 
and  instead  of  feeling  grateful,  they  were  in  a  plot  to  vex  her." 
Her  nephew  suggested  that  she  should  begin  over  again ;  but 
she  indignantly  refused.  "  They  might  manage  their  own 
affairs  now."  But  when,  in  spite  of  her  faint  resistance.  Mon- 
sieur de  Sainville  kissed  her  hand,  and  when  Nathalie  pressed 
her  lips  to  the  averted  cheek,  the  placable  Canoness,  who  longed 
to  yield,  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded.  She  said  "  she  was 
much  too  easy,  but  it  was  time  all  this  should  end ;"  therefore, 
beseeching  her  nephew  not  to  smile  and  Petite  not  to  look 
foolish,"  she  made  a  second  trial,  which  met  with  exactly  the 
same  result  as  the  first.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  would  ask; 
Nathalie  would  reply  when  she  had  been  asked. 

"  Again  !"  indignantly  exclaimed  the  Canoness,  and  it  took 
five  minutes  of  coaxing  on  either  side  of  her  chair  to  soothe 
her  offended  dignity.     At  length  she  hit  on  an  expedient. 

In  solemn  and  deliberate  tone,  and  in  the  distinctly  uttered 
name  of  Armand  de  Sainville,  she  asked  Nathalie  Montolieu 
in  marriage ;  to  which,  in  the  name  of  the  said  Nathalie,  she — 
after  a  pause  given  to  that  modest  reflection  suggested  by  pro- 
priety— uttered  the  most  distinct  and  unequivocal  "•  yes " 
maiden  thus  questioned  ever  spoke.  She  listened  for  a  while 
to  hear  if  any  dissentient  voice  would  be  raised,  but  there  was 
a  profound  silence. 

'•  There  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sigh  of  relief  and  a  tri- 
umphant look,  as  she  felt  that  the  arduous  matter  was  fairly 
settled.  "  There,  it  is  all  right,  now  ;  but  I  should  like  to  know 
how  you  would  have  managed  without  me.  Ah  !  you  may 
well  smile  and  look  glad,  foolish  children.  But  you  need  not 
think  it  is  all  over,  you  have  to  hear  me  yet." 


NATHALIE.  511 

Both  smiled  at  the  expected  homily.  But  of  this  ths 
Canoness  remained  unconscious ;  she  glanced  with  a  compla- 
cent smile  from  her  nephew  to  the  young  girl,  and  nodding  at 
them  with  that  mingled  honliomie  and  innocent  vanity  which 
formed  the  basis  of  her  character,  she  thus  addressed  them : 

'■  Children,  it  is  well  to  marry  and  be  fond  of  one  another, 
but  that  is  not  enough  " 

"  How  can  you  tell,  aunt  ?"  asked  her  nephew,  "  you  were 
never  married." 

"  But  I  have  observed,  Armand,  obsei-ved  a  great  deal. 
Pray  do  not  interrupt  me  again.  You  see,"  she  resumed, 
"  little  quarrels  are  dangerous  ;  affection  dies  of  those  pricks  of 
a  pin.  I  do  not  tell  you,  Petite,  to  obey  Armand ;  I  think  it 
very  ridiculous  that  men  should  command  and  women  obey : 
but  you  see,  my  dear,  he  is  older  than  you  are ;  he  has  more 
experience  and  judgment;  it  will  be  well  to  yield  sometimes, 
for  when  a  man  takes  a  young  wife,  and  is  subject  to  her  ca- 
prices, he  loses  the  respect  of  the  world.  Now,  Petite,  you 
must  be  jealous  of  your  husband's  reputation  and  honor — both 
are  your  own  ;  do  not  forget  it.  As  for  you,  Armand,  I  only 
say  this  :  a  woman  is  not  a  stone,  but  something  with  a  heart. 
Be  kind,  and  she  will  do  as  you  wish;  command,  and  she  will 
either  brave  or  deceive  you.  In  short,"  added  Aunt  Rade- 
gonde,  warming  with  her  subject,  "  behave  to  her  like  a  Chris- 
tian and  a  gentleman  ;  not  like  a  Turk." 

Thus  pithily  closed  Aunt  Badegonde's  homily. 


CONCLUSION. 


Six  weeks  had  elapsed  ;  to  the  profound  amazement  of  the 
town  of  Sainville,  and  of  the  whole  vicinity,  Nathalie  Mon- 
tolieu  had  left  the  school  of  Mademoiselle  Dantin  for  the 
chateau,  and  relinquished  her  maiden  name  for  that  of  De 
Sainville. 

This  mesalliance  was  variously  commented  on.  The  gene- 
ral and  most  popular  explanation  was,  that  notwithstanding 
his  years  and  experience,  Monsieur  de  Sainville  had  allowed 
himself  to  be  caught  by  a  pretty  face  ;  ergo,  that  he  was  only 
a  fool ;    and  that  though  so  young  and  seemingly  heedless. 


512  NATHALIE. 

Mademoiselle  Montolieu  was  wonderfully  expert  in  the  difficult 
art  of  catching  a  rich  husband.  The  tact  with  which  she  had 
transferred  her  designs  from  the  nephew  to  his  wealthy  uncle 
was  especially  admired.  A  few  foolish  and  romantic  people 
did  indeed  venture  to  hint  that  Monsieur  de  Sainville  was 
perhaps  as  wise  as  Monsieur  de  Chateaufort,  who  had  married  a 
plebeian  dot  of  five  hundred  thousand  francs,  a  plain  person, 
and  a  sour  temper  ;  they  even  presumed  to  add  that  it  was  no 
actual  crime  to  be  young  and  pretty  ;  and  that  a  woman  might 
love  a  man  who  happened  to  be  rich  and  somewhat  older  than 
herself;  but  those  persons  were  treated  as  such  persons  will  bo 
treated  to  the  end  of  time :  with  the  most  entire  contempt. 

Every  one,  however,  agreed  in  admiring  the  perfect  uncon- 
cern with  which  Monsieur  de  Sainville  and  his  wife  endured 
the  ironical  surprise  the  announcement  of  their  marriage  had 
created,  and  it  was  d'ecided  on  all  hands  that  they  had  mani- 
fested a  very  fine  sang-froid.  But  to  this  praise  we  regret  to 
state  that  they  were  not  entitled,  having  remained,  not  only 
unaware,  but  unsuspicious  of  the  comments  to  which  an  event 
that  appeared  to  them  very  simple  and  natural  had  given 
rise. 

Monsieur  de  Sainville  entertained  for  his  own  judgment, 
prudence,  and  forethought,  that  degree  of  respect  with  which 
most  men  are  amply  provided  ;  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he 
could  do  a  foolish  thing ;  he  did  not  think  that  he  had  done  a 
foolish  thing  in  marrying  Nathalie,  and  consiequently  did  not 
imagine  that  the  world  might  probably  be  of  another  opinion. 
Nathalie  came  to  the  same  conclusion  from  different  grounds. 
She  had  f=^>  sincere  a  respect  for  her  husband — apart  from  the 
love  she  felt — she  held  him  so  superior  in  every  thing  to  the 
younger  men  she  had  known,  and  they,  to  say  the  truth,  were 
neither  remarkable  nor  numerous,  that  she  would  have  listened 
with  incredulous  surprise  to  the  accusation  of  interested 
motives  preferred  against  her.  It  would  have  seemed  to  her 
that  there  could  exist  but  one  motive  for  marrying  Monsieur 
de  Sainville,  and  that  this  motive  must  be  as  apparent  to  every 
mind  as  it  was  to  her  own. 

The  six  weeks  which  elapsed  had  been  marked  by  no 
important  occurrence.  There  had,  indeed,  been  some  talk  of 
one  of  those  matrimonial  tours  of  which  the  fashion,  imported 
from  England,  has  of  late  years  become  so  prevalent  in  France ; 
but  Aunt  Radegonde  looked  so  perfectly  miserable  at  the  idea  oif 
remaining   alone,    Monsieur  de   Sainville  evidently  cai-ed    td 


NATlIALre.  513 

lutle  for  tliis  escursivc  sort  of  happiness  awarded  to  the 
honeymoon,  and  Nathalie  confessed  so  frankly  that  there  was  no 
place  she  liked  so  well  as  Sainville,  that  the  plan  was  relin- 
quished. 

We  know  that  a  tale  has,  properly  speaking,  no  right  to 
extend  beyond  that  fiat  of  a  heroine's  destiny,  called  marriage  ; 
and  yet  we  must  ask  the  reader  to  linger  with  us  on  the 
threshold  of  that  old  saloon  into  which  he  has  so  often  been 
ushered,  and  to  behold  one  last  farewell  picture. 

Evening  is  drawing  in.  The  chilly  Canoness  sits  in  her 
deep  arm-chair  by  the  fireside ;  Nathalie  has  been  wrapping 
her  up  in  a  vast  shawl,  and  placing  a  warm  cushion  under  her 
little  feet ;  they  are  alone. 

"There,"  said  Nathalie,  in  her  cheerful  voice,  '-you  are 
quite  right  now,  and  can  doze  quietly." 

"Doze,  Petite  ;  I  wonder  you  can  talk  so  childishly,"  was 
the  somewhat  pettish  reply;  "how  often  must  I  tell  you  that 
I  do  not  doze  after  dinner,  that  I  am  only  in  a  reflective 
mood?" 

"  But,  aunt,  why  do  you  shut  your  eyes  ?" 

"  Because  the  light  annoys  me,  you  simple  little  thing." 

Nathalie  turned  her  head  away  to  hide  a  furtive  smile  as 
her  aunt  closed  her  eyes  to  prepai-e  for  her  after-dinner  reflec- 
tions ;  her  regular  breathing  soon  announced  that  those  reflec- 
tions were  at  least  of  a  placid  nature.  Nathalie  stood  awhile 
on  the  hearth  and  then  glided  softly  to  one  of  the  windows. 
It  was  a  calm  and  chill  evening.  The  moon  was  rising,  but 
as  yet  her  light  was  gray  and  indistinct,  and  the  trees  of  the 
avenue  cast  faint  and  undefined  shadows  on  the  ground. 
Beyond  rose  the  massive  iron  gate  ;  and  farther  still  extended 
the  white  and  lonely  road,  winding  away  amongst  green  fields 
and  solitary  homesteads.  It  was  that  road  which  Nathalie 
followed  in  its  farthest  windings,  as  she  stood  in  the  embrasure 
of  the  window,  her  brow  resting  against  the  clear  window-panes, 
the  heavy  curtain  shrouding  her  in. 

She  was  dreaming;  not  the  feverish  dreams  which  had 
once  flushed  the  cheek  and  haunted  the  heart  of  the  ardent 
girl ;  not  these.  Womanhood's  calmer  and  holier  visions  were 
now  hovering  around  her,  for  she  was  happy.  Happiness  is 
not,  after  all,  so  rare  as  it  has  often  been  represented  ;  it  exists 
and  is  met  with,  but  accompanied  with  doubts  and  fears,  that 
trouble  its  purest  joys,  and  with  sweet  intoxicating  hopes, 
that  agitate  still  more  deeply.     It  is  the  serene  placid  happi. 

22* 


514  NATHALIE. 

ness  that  is  a  rare  and  brief  sojourner  on  earth  ;  the  guest  ol 
a  day,  not  so  often  banished  by  actual  sorrow  as  the  weariness 
of  human  hearts,  too  soon  satiated  with  its  pure  and  delightful 
presence.  It  was  that  still  joy  which  now  dwelt  in  the  heart 
of  Nathalie,  and  shed  its  divine  peace  over  all  her  dreams. 
She  did  not  feel  hope,  for  hope  implies  desire,  and  every  desire 
of  her  heart  was  fulfilled ;  she  had  not,  as  of  yore,  the 
longing  wish  to  read  and  open  the  sealed  book  of  the  future  ; 
she  had  fixed  her  destiny  on  earth  by  solemn  and  irrevocable 
vows  ;  and  though  she  could  not  tell  whether  sorrow  or  happi- 
ness awaited  her,  she  knew  that  there  could  be  for  her  ouly 
one  deep  sorrow,  even  as  there  was  only  one  deep  happiness. 

Of  what,  then,  did  she  dream  ? 

Of  the  quiet  domestic  joys  of  woman's  household  life ;  of 
her  husband  away,  as  he  was  this  evening,  and  returning,  as 
she  expected  he  would  return,  on  the  morrow  ;  of  kind  words 
and  gentle  caresses,  of  winter  evenings  by  the  fireside,  of  long 
summer  mornings  in  the  garden,  and  of  a  whole  existence 
flowing  on  thus  through  years  with  the  same  calm  and  even 
tide.  The  change,  the  adventure,  the  romance  she  had  once 
longed  for  no  longer  troubled  her ;  the  fever  of  her  soul  had 
won  its  long  sought  rest. 

It  was  some  time  before  she  left  the  window  and  returned 
to  the  hearth.  The  Canoness  was  in  a  deep  sleep ;  the  fire 
shone  with  a  warm  and  vivid  glow.  Nathalie  sat  down  on  a 
low  stool ;  she  smiled  even  to  herself  as  she  remembered  the 
winter  evenings  thus  spent,  with  a  book  on  her  lap  that  still 
remained  unread ;  and  then  came  back  the  memory  of  doubt, 
sorrow,  and  separation,  of  griefs  poured  forth  on  a  sister's 
bosom,  of  the  voice  which  had  ever  cheered  her  with  pure  and 
holy  counsels,  of  the  calm  death-bed,  and  of  the  lonely  grave 
in  the  narrow  church  yard  of  Sainville.  So  absorbed  was  she 
in  those  recollections  that  she  never  heard  the  sound  of  a 
horse's  hoofs  in  the  avenue,  nor,  after  a  while,  the  drawing- 
room  door  opening.  It  was  Monsieur  de  Sainville  who  entered 
He  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold  and  looked  at  his 
wife.  The  fire-light  fell  on  her  features,  youthful  in  spite  of 
their  present  seriousness,  and  on  her  slender  figure  ;  her  present 
attitude  displaying  more  than  usual  its  light  girlish  grace. 
Nathalie  looked  very  pretty  thus,  and  yet  a  strange  pang  shot 
across  the  bosom  of  Monsieur  de  Sainville  as  he  gazed  on  her. 
He  was  still  in  the  prime  and  vigor  of  life,  but  she  was  in  all 
Ihe  early  freshness  of  her  years.     It  was  not  that  he  wished  to 


NATHALIE.  515 

idd  one  day  more  to  that  existence  as  yet  so  bi'icf,  nor  would 
he  have  seen  without  regret  a  severer  line  on  that  youthful 
brow;  she  c-harraed  him  thus,  and.  as  he  felt,  charmed  him  only 
too  well ;  but  in  spite  of  himself,  the  lingering  doubt  would 
intrude  that  a  day  might  come  when  Nathalie  would  repent 
her  present  choice,  and  wish  she  had  chosen  herself  some 
younger  mate. 

He  closed  the  door  ;  Nathalie  looked  up,  quickly  rose  to 
nseet  him,  and  there  was  something  in  the  flush  of  glad  sur- 
prise which  lit  up  her  face,  in  the  irrepressible  joy  betrayed  by 
every  one  of  her  expressive  and  animated  features,  that  would 
have  soothed  a  more  irritable  spirit,  and  charmed  more  pain- 
ful doubts  away.  In  youth,  when  the  heart  is  naturally  more 
generous,  because  it  is  more  wealthy,  the  affection  given  is 
often  the  source  of  greater,  and  certainly  purer  happiness, 
than  the  love  received ;  but  as  years  steal  on,  as  the  heart,  like 
a  prodigal  spendthrift,  grows  poor,  selfish,  and  wearied,  no- 
thing can  exceed  the  eager  delight  with  which  it  receives  the 
slightest  tokens  of  a  pure  and  sincere  affection.  This  is  a 
weakness  against  which  judgment  avails  little,  and  bygone  ex- 
perience still  less.  Few  had  become  more  skeptical  of  human 
affections  than  Monsieur  de  Sainville  ;  few  had  been  more  jus- 
tified in  their  skepticism,  and  yet  none,  perhaps,  ever  yielded 
with  more  facility  than  he  did  to  the  pleasure  of  watching 
every  emotion  of  the  love  he  had  at  first  unconsciously  inspired, 
and  then  sedulously  fostered  in  the  heart  of  the  young  girl  now 
his  wife. 

As  he  took  a  seat  quietly,  in  order  not  to  awaken  his  aunt, 
■and  Nathalie  placed  herself  on  the  low  stool  at  his  feet,  she 
did  not  say  his  unexpected  return  pleased  her,  but  her  flushed 
cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes,  the  volubility  of  her  piquant  speech, 
the  very  restlessness  of  her  movements,  betrayed  her  joy ;  un- 
expressed, indeed,  but  to  him  how  legible  in  the  radiant  fiico 
now  raised  towards  his  !  And  it  was  not  merely  the  gladness 
his  return  inspired  that  pleased  him,  but  still  more  the  facility 
with  whicli  this  Provencal  nature  yielded  to  pleasurable  emo- 
tions, ever  displaying  that  singular  aptitude  for  happiness,  if 
we  may  for  once  borrow  a  French  idiom,  which  had  struck  and 
charmed  him  from  the  first. 

To  those  who  have  lived  much,  whether  prematurely  or  in 
the  natural  course  of  years,  there  is  a  deep  attraction  in  the 
vivacity  and  buoyancy  of  3'ounger  minds  and  hearts.  A  placid, 
serene  woman,  far  more  perfect  than  Nathalie,   would  have 


516  NATHALIE. 

failed  iu  awakening  the  same  feeling  in  Monsieur  de  Sainvillc, 
who  was  himself  calm  enough  not  to  need  that  soothing  but 
somewhat  chill  influence.  Nathalie  was  to  him  as  is  to  a  tra- 
veller the  summer  breeze, — keen,  fresh,  and  vivifying,  but 
never  cold,  which  tempers  the  fervid  heat  of  noonday,  and  ban- 
ishes the  evening  weariness  of  limbs  and  spirit. 

She  had  ceased  speaking,  perhaps  because  she  feared  to 
awaken  the  sleeping  Canoness ;  perhaps  because  other  thoughts 
had  come  to  her.  Monsieur  de  Sainville  bent  down  and  look- 
ed into  her  face;  the  fire-light  shone  brightly  on  it;  it  was 
somewhat  serious,  yet  no  sad  thoughts  seemed  tc  trouble  her 
as  she  sat  there  on -the  hearth,  her  look  on  the  glowing  embers, 
her  hands  clasped  around  her  knees. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of?"  asked  her  husband,  placing 
his  hand  lightly  on  her  shoulder. 

She  looked  up  slowly,  and  as  slowly  smiled. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  she  replied,  '•  that  it  is  Eow  two  years 
since  I  entered  this  house — this  room — and  sat  down  where  I 
am  sitting  now ;  strange  that  it  should  have  t«ken  two  entire 
years  to  make  me  so  happy." 

"  You  are  happy,  then  ?" 

"  Very  happy." 

"  And  you  have  no  doubt — no  fear  V 

"  None — why  should  I  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  almost  sadly,  but  her  smile  remained 
bright,  trusting,  and  undismayed. 

"  You  are  the  same  as  ever,"  said  he,  "  too  hopeful.  Come, 
confess  that  you  look  upon  life,  married  life  in  particular,  as  a 
sort  of  perpetual  sunshine." 

"  I  think  no  such  thing,"  was  the  dry  and  decisive  reply ; 
"  I  think,  on  the  contrary,  that  it  is  extremely  stormy." 

"  Indeed !" 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  but  I  have  resolved  one  thing." 

"  And  pray  what  is  that  thing  ?" 

"  That  you  shall  have  all  the  storms  to  yourself  You  need 
not  smile  ironically :  calm  as  you  are,  you  know  that  I  have 
found  the  way  of  putting  you  out  of  temper." 

"  Yes,  Petite ;  but  you  were  first  very  much  out  of  temper 
yourself;  if,  therefore,  the  storms  you  predict  take  place,  you 
will  be -" 

"  A  Griselidis — all  patience,  meek  submission,  and  dutiful 
obedience." 

A.  skeptical  smile  betrayed  the  doubt  with  which  Monsieur 


NATHALIE.-  5 1 7 

flc  Sainville  was  disposed  to  treat  this  assertion  ;  but  Nathalie 
persisted. 

'•  Indeed  it  ■n'ill  be  as  I  say ;  and  that  because  I  know  it 
will  vex  you  thoroughly." 

"  This  sounds  frank  ;  but  pray  how  do  you  know  it  will 
vex  me  V 

"  Because  you  like  resistance,  provided  you  can  conquer  it 
in  the  end  ;  because  you  would  wish  me  to  storm,  fret,  and 
quarrel,  whilst  you  remained  cool  as  an  icicle,  and  consequent- 
ly alwa3's  master.  But  as  I  am  resolved  not  to  give  you  this 
gratification,  I  have  taken  a  dose  of  patience  sufficient  to  last 
me  through  life." 

"  Well,  since  you  confess  to  the  amiable  motive  of  wishing 
to  vex  me,  I  begin  to  believe  this  may  be  true." 

"  And  you  will  give  me  credit  for  no  other  motive,"  asked 
Nathalie,  a  little  seriously.  "  You  do  not  think  I  could  be 
patient  from  reason  and  principle  if  you  happened  to  be  stern 
and  exacting ;  you  do  not  think  I  could  separate  love  from 
temper,  and  whilst  I  trusted  in  one,  find  it  easy  to  endure  the 
other  V 

"  Would  you  do  that,  Petite  ?" 

"  Yes,  Armand,  I  would  ;  for  indeed  you  may  believe  me, 
mine  is  no  weak  and  passing  affection.  I  know  that  you  are 
human,  and  that  you  have  humanity's  weaknesses  ;  but  I  know 
also  that  you  are  upright  and  true  ;  and  if  I  love  you  much,  I 
revere  you  not  less.  You  need  not  look  at  me  so  wistfully  :  I 
cannot,  I  will  not  doubt.  I  said  it  already,  this  is  no  passing 
affection  :  it  will  not  end  with  a  few  years  ;  it  will  not  be  eon- 
quered  by  sorrow  or  death  ;  it  is  as  much  a  part  of  my  being 
as  is  the  immortal  spirit  within  me,  and  like  it,  will  it  survive 
the  storms  and  trials  of  existence,  and  pass  beneath  the  dark 
portal  of  death  to  rejoice  in  the  life  and  light  of  a  purer  day." 

Shf"  ceased — tears  had  gathered  in  her  dark  eyes,  and  her 
smiling  and  parted  lips  quivered  slightly.  He  made  her  no 
reply,  but  bending  over  her  he  laid  his  hand  caressingly  on 
the  glos.sy  and  wavy  tresses,  and  drew  nearer  to  him  that  bowed 
and  submissive  head. 

We  will  leave  them  thus.  The  Canoness  is  plunged  in  her 
deepest  and  most  reflective  mood ;  a  mood  which,  alas !  grows 
deeper  and  longer  every  evening ;  the  wood-fire  is  burning 
brightly  on  the  hearth  ;  it  lights  the  room  with  a  warm  genial 
glow  ;  twilight  has  deepened  into  dusk ;  the  red  curtain  is  still 
undrawn ;  through  the  clear  window-panes  are  seen  the  dark 


518  NATHALIE. 

trees  of  the  avenue  ;  they  rise  against  a  gky  of  night's  decpcEt 
azure:  over  all  shines  the  moon — large,  full,  and  radiant — her 
soft,  clear  light  glides  in  through  the  casement,  and  falls  upon 
the  floor ;  it  contrasts,  but  does  not  blend,  with  the  red  fire- 
light. 

And  no  other  light  seems  to  be  needed  for  the  sleep  of  age, 
or  the  dreams  of  love  and  youth.  But,  alas  !  there  is  only  one 
there  who  is  dreaming  now :  Monsieur  de  Sainville  is  indeed 
looking  at  his  wife  with  true  and  serious  tenderness ;  he  loves 
her  and  has  faith  in  her  love ;  but  he  has  not  lived  in  vain ;  he 
knows  the  fallacy  of  hope,  the  weakness  of  humanity;  the 
perishable  nature  of  its  deepest  feelings  ;  the  freshness  of  Na- 
thalie's hopes,  the  fervor  of  her  faith  cannot  exist  for  him;  and 
yet  he  is  happy,  for  he  can  say ''  sufficient  to  each  day  is  the 
evil  thereof,"  and  whilst  the  glad  present  shines  over  him,  he 
will  not  sadden  it  with  thoughts  of  the  morrow's  gloom. 

But  she  who  now  sits  at  his  feet  with  brow  so  serene, 
smile  so  hopeful,  and  look  that  seems  to  welcome  such  glorious 
visions, — has  she  those  doubts,  those  fears  1     She  has  not. 

"  Hope  Avitli  eyes  so  fair" 

never  wore  a  brighter  aspect,  when  the  poor  poet,  who  died  of 
grief,  first  beheld  hei*.  And  hope  is  with  her  now;  her  glance 
undimmed  by  weeping,  her  beacon-light  unquenched  by  the 
heavy  night  shadows.  Nathalie  is  young ;  barely  has  she  seen 
twenty  years  ;  she  has  suflFered,  but  she  forgets  her  past  sorrow, 
to  gaze  on  the  future ;  it  is  beautiful  and  bright ;  she  sees  it  as 
clearly  as  the  light  reflected  in  the  mirror  before  her.  She  has 
heard  that  happiness  is  transient,  that  love  is  as  delusive  as  the 
dream  of  a  night ;  but  the  voice  in  her  heart  tells  her  another 
tale.  Where  others  have  found  sorrow,  she  shall  have  deep  joy, 
for  Nathalie  believes ;  her  look,  her  attitude,  are  the  very  sub- 
lime of  faith  ;  there  is  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  on  that  clear 
brow,  not  the  most  remote  mistrust  in  that  upturned  gaze. 
She  is  happy,  and  happy  indeed  does  she  look,  sitting  there  at 
his  feet,  secure  in  the  might  and  faith  of  her  undying  love. 

Long  may  those  bright  hopes  and  warm  feelings  remain 
with  her  ;  long  may  they  linger  near  her  household  hearth^  and 
hallow  it  with  their  pure  presence  ! 


THE    END, 


POPULAR  WORKS  OF  FICTION 

PUBLISHED    BY 

3D.     .A.  i»  IP  L  E  T  O  :i>T     &z     CO., 
5*9  &  551  Broadway,  New  Tork. 


ILLUSTRATED   LIBRARY   OF   ROMANCE. 

In  uniform  octavo  volumes, 

Handsomely  illustrated,  and  bound  either  in  paper  covers,  or  in  muslin. 

Price,  in  Paper,  ^l.OO;  in  Cloth,  $1  SO. 

*^*  In  this  series  of  Romances  are  included  the  fimous  novels 
®f  LOUISA  MUHLBACH.  Since  the  time  when  Sir  Walter  Scott 
produced  so  profound  a  sensation  in  the  reading-world,  no  historical 
novels  have  achieved  a  success  so  great  as  those  from  the  pen  of  Miss 

MuHLBACH. 

1.  TOO   STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE.      A  Novel.     By 

Lady  Georgiana  Fullerton. 

2.  THE    CLEVER    WOMAN    OP     THE    FAMILY.      By 

Miss  Yonge,  author  of  "The  Heir  of  Redolyffe," 
"  j:-eartsease,"  etc 

3.  JOSEPH  H.  AND  HIS  COURT.    By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

4.  FREDERICK   THE    GREAT  AND   HIS   COURT.      By 

Louisa  Muhlbach. 

5.  BERLIN  AND    SANS-SOUCI;  or,  FREDERICK  THE 

GREAT  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.    By  Louisa  Muhl- 
bach. 

6.  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.    By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

7.  FREDERICK  THE   GREAT  AND  HIS  FAMILY.    By 

Louisa  Muhlbach. 

8.  HENRY  Vm.  AND  CATHARINE  PARR.    By  Louisa 

Muhlbach. 

9.  LOUISA  OF  PRUSSIA  AND  HER  TIMES.    By  Lotiisa 

Muhlbach. 

10.    MARIE   ANTOINETTE   AND   HER   SON.    By  Louisa 
Muhlbach, 


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A  NOVEL. 

By  the  Eight  Honorable  BENJAMIN  DISRAELI,  late  Prime  Minister  of  Great  Britain. 

"N6sse  haec  omnia  salus  est  adolescenta\is."—Teren(ius. 

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career,  have  long  been  contemplated  by  the  nation." — London  Daily  News. 

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Times. 

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K17n 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  373  883 


-.  my: 


/^-^^ 


